


my friends won’t love me like you

by thesquirrel_alixncvna



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I'm Bad At Tagging, Idiots in Love, Soulmates, and summaries, if you believe in that crap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesquirrel_alixncvna/pseuds/thesquirrel_alixncvna
Summary: "It seems to me that the best relationships, the ones that last, are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend, is suddenly the only person you can imagine yourself with."In short, Steve and Natasha were best friends. Until that one night, one minuscule decision, a momentary lapse in judgement, changed it all.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 36
Kudos: 192





	1. the morning after

**Author's Note:**

> I already posted this work on my Wattpad account, but have rewritten and extended some chapters for AO3. Eek, I'm nervous. Tell me what you think down below!

Steve and Natasha are best friends. Everyone knows this. It's an obvious fact, unquestionable, faced by no doubt. Perhaps 'best friends' is too loose a term. 'Companion' and 'confidante' don't sound like enough. Would ' _soulmates_ ' be more apt? Someone once tried to argue that Steve was second to Clint, and practically the whole lunch canteen came over and yelled at him until he shut up and changed his opinion. Word got out, and soon nearly the whole of SHIELD was on this guy's back; he nearly resigned. But what could they say, they were passionate about this topic. 

Sure, she and Clint were incredibly close, there was no denying that. He was a part of her, and she him. But you might guess they were twins sooner than best friends. Comparison is impossible. Competition is a waste of time. 

It was just so obvious. The way they talked, the way they laughed. How their faces lit up automatically at the mention of the other, ears pricked. How they knew each other inside out. Too well, it was sometimes joked. How they were everything to each other, would do anything for the other. You could see it in their eyes. They would go to the ends of the earth for each other, further, to the far rim of the universe, which was just a bit too far, in some people's opinions. 

Some people said, insisted, that the love they held went far beyond the bar of friendship. That they were so in love it was hard to comprehend. Romeo and Juliet barely made a scratch. But there was one thing everyone agreed on. They were perfect for each other, as friends or more than. Two halves of a whole. Yin and Yang. They completed each other, brought out their better halves. The normal to the other's crazy, everything to the other's lacking. The beginning to the ending of the other's tale of love and loss and agony and salvation that they wore as their own. A deep camaraderie so perfect it was hard to imagine anything else.

Steve and Natasha were best friends. Past tense. Until that one night changed it all, forever. 

Neither knew how it happened. It just _did_. The memories of how they came to be in the same bed were blurry, and nonexistent in the majority of places. Words were probably exchanged before the tearing off of clothes. Comforts, consolations, promises, all of the above may have flowed from their lips before the passion took over. But in one ear and out the other, forgotten in the fiery maelstrom to follow, and the hours between sleeping and waking. However, as unclear are the steps leading up to it, the actual action may as well have been photographically seared into their minds. For better or for worse. Time that electric is not easily forgotten.

The next thing Natasha knows is she's waking in a bed that isn't hers, completely naked. The pull from slumber is slow at first, like rising from deep water. But the shrouds steadily fall away around her, consciousness returning with a jolt. The unfamiliarity is instant,like a slap in the face. Apprehension fills her as her eyes fly open, senses already on high alert. Her eyes scan what she can without moving her head. There's a familiarity blooming at the back of her mind as she studies the ceiling and walls, but it's intangible, on the edge of her mind like the tip of her tongue. Natasha pins the first flicker of suspicion to the wall in her mind: her arms are free. If she's at home, there is always one raised above her head, always one gripped by a ring of iron. The second: she's not alone. There is a very definite weight at her side, and an arm draped over her stomach. A realisation is coming like the dawn, and she shies away, as something about it is ominous. What do they say? In ignorance, there is bliss. Usually she might've scoffed. The truth always matters most, no matter how much it may hurt. But something about this seems very, very personal, and very, very, compromising, so much so that Natasha wants to stare at the ceiling as long as it will take to teleport her out. _Oh God_ , she thinks. _What have I gone and done now_.

And then she looks. Every muscle in her body seizes up at once, tense with shock. Speechlessness slacks her tongue, mind going blank, the perfect storyboard for the memories that begin to rush in front of her eyes. A thousand seconds worth of lips and hands and skin flash through her mind as she takes in the sleeping form of Steve Rogers beside her, complements to sweetness and desire and heat. None of which are supposed to be triggered by his face. _Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit_ , she thinks. _Oh shit. Oh God. Oh crap. You fucking idiot_. Her next clear thought is a few seconds away, confusion and despair making her head spin, and any ounce of a plan impossible. _Out. Now. Get out_ , will have to do. 

It just doesn't compute. In no universe can this make sense. She and Steve. In bed together. Doing everything but sleeping.

But it has to click somehow, because it happened, and now she's going to have to deal with the consequences. She stifles the anguish rising inside at her mistake, but pushes it aside for later, now focusing on the task at hand. Various articles of clothing are littered around the room, flung in all directions in their passion, it seems, jeans crumpled at the foot of the bed and lingerie slung on doorknobs only a few examples. This is going to take a while. _It'll be fine_. All she's got to do is reclaim all her clothes from their respective corners, leave without waking Steve and get back up to her own room without running into anyone. She's a master assassin, a world-class spy. How hard can this be?

Extremely hard, as she finds out. Impossible. Soundlessly, she carefully removes the hand from her stomach and slides off the bed. The fingers twitch a little, but he doesn't stir. She picks up her knickers with distaste, but manages to don them and the hoodie she was relaxing in last night before he turns over, eyes opening slowly. Dread fills her limbs like cement, and Natasha feels fastened in place, a fly caught in a web. Once he sees her, he jerks to sitting position, eyes wide. Horrified, she grabs all her clothes in reaching distance and darts out the door before he can even form a word, not bothering with farewells.

Once she reaches her room (luckily without being stopped or noticed at all on the way up; it's still early) Natasha slams door, throws the clothes on her own bed and sags back against the wood, breathing hard. Natasha has given herself preventative measures against tears, but it's all she can do not to let them flow as a lump forms at the back of her throat and her body begins to tremble. She slides down the door, head in her hands, fingers scrunching so hard in the short blonde that her roots cry out in pain. Terror fills her heart, her head, her whole body, with weight that feels like being buried alive. She struggles for breath, wheezing against her knees. _It's gone_ , her mind gulps. _For a while there, you had everything. You fucking slut, screwing the one person- the one person who-_ No, no time for tears. Instead she focus on cajoling her heart back into its uniform rhythm. Her terror, though not irrational, is unnecessary. 

It's terror that she's lost everything. Terror that nothing will ever be the same, and it's all her fault. But also of how she feels. Of how good it felt. Though her limbs are weighted, her heart feels light when those memories rise again, and becomes more fluttering than beating. When she thinks of how his eyes bore into hers, how gentle he was even in ferocity, how he'd whispered a million sweet nothings against her ear, a wave, a funny feeling, goes through her and she shudders. It's a feeling she doesn't like, one that flips her stomach and makes a colour rise to her cheeks. This isn't how it should be, they're friends. That's all they've ever been. It should have been awkward, painful even. But all she can recall is never ending joy and pleasure, and most of all, love. She remembers the love, so passionate it almost hurt. How everything fit so perfectly, their lips like puzzle pieces. How she felt dizzy with the desire to be near him, touch him, kiss him. And it was good. So good. So good she'd never wanted to stop. Not what you'd expect from a century old man, but it was the best she'd ever had. 

If it was supposed to feel wrong, why did it feel so right?

——----

Steve sits up properly in bed and leans against the headboard, letting the sharp edge press into the back of his skull, though he's numb to the pain. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and shakes his head. Colour bursts under his lids in intangible shapes and patterns, supernovas in a cosmos. _You stupid, stupid idiot_ , he thinks. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why'd you have to go and do that? _He bangs his head against the headboard, hearing it rattle and feeling a small bruise forming on the back of his head. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, struggling to stay ahead of the emotions.__

__This feeling, this dread, and shame, it's fear. He's scared. Steve Rogers isn't scared of most things these days, but this has rocked him to his core. He's scared he's lost the one thing, the one person, he knows with absolute certainty, he loves, loves more than life itself, the one person he'd do anything for, the one person he can't lose. He's scared his selfishness has savagely torn their whole relationship into pieces, ruined everything, that it's all changed again. That he's waking up to another harsh new reality, and this time it's due to his own weakness when it comes to lust. What if she didn't want to? What if- what if he forced her? God, how she must hate him. Steve had told Natasha he would do anything for her, never hurt her, and now- now what? Steve is scared of so many things, but most potently, and underneath all the shame, how happy he feels. Well, felt. In those first few waking seconds, he felt like the happiest man alive, last night too. Those memories, though he keeps trying to swat them away, fly to the front, begging to be seen, heard, felt. And they tell him that last night was the best night of his life. Steve remembers how it felt, simply gazing down at her face, falling into the green. His lips on her skin. Tangling his hands in her short, soft hair. Running his hands over her body. When he remembers how it felt, he just wants to go back there._ _

__But he shouldn't. Really, really shouldn't._ _

__They're best friends, and respected colleagues. He should want to forget that night, thrust the awkwardness from his mind, but instead he wants to hold its warmth close and never let go. He feels so guilty, and it's eating him from the inside out._ _

__——-_ _

_Breakfast_. This recollection springs to Natasha's mind suddenly, jolting her from her well of self-pity.

__There's no avoiding it. She can't exactly pretend to be ill, they all know it's not true; the Black Widow is never ill. She usually looks forward to breakfast. It's the one time (unless you're on a mission) you're able to see everybody, together, before the day begins and you're sent off to some far off country, or called to a gruelling training session, or buried under a mountain of mission reports. But not today. Today, she is only filled with dread at the thought of having to see him again. Being in his company will be like salt on a wound, is likely to leave her with friction burns. She wants to lock herself up, hide away from her embarrassment and most of all, her feelings. She never wants to see him again, and that's all she wants to do._ _

_Maybe he'll be really relaxed about it_ , she thinks. _It probably meant nothing to him anyway. He'll laugh and shrug it off, and things will go back to normal._ Natasha doesn't know whether this thought is soothing or painful.

On one hand, that's all she wants. For things to go back to normal, pretend it never happened, best friends who made a mistake. Succumbed to a momentary lapse in judgement. Gave into their craving for another's bodily heat, their yearning to be with someone in a way neither have in so long. It probably didn't matter to him that it was her, just as she's trying to convince herself it doesn't matter that it was him. They didn't want _each other_ , they can't have. Those sweet nothings he whispered, they were nothing, he can't have meant them. Because they were promises of longing and love and lust, all things Natasha knows Steve doesn't feel for her. He was just grateful to have someone. They didn't mean anything by it. It was a _mistake_ , a misjudgement that has ended unfavourably.

__But here's the thing. She's slowly realising it wasn't a mistake, not for her at any rate._ _

__On the other hand, she's not sure she can cope with things going back to normal. The terrifying thing is, Natasha is coming to the realisation, only as she mulls the pros and cons over, that she did want it. She did want him, and it did matter. She still wants him. Even now, pressed against the door, she wants him. That night meant everything to her. She wouldn't be able to bear normality, though she hates the present. Seeing him laugh at her, at them, knowing it meant next to nothing for him, would kill her. Knowing he thought of it, of her, as a mistake, would tear her apart. In short, Natasha has no idea what she wants. At this point, it's all or nothing._ _

__In the end, she chastises herself for procrastinating and forces herself to shower and dress. The water is scalding, and as she feels it run over her skin, she imagines it all burning away. All the swirling thoughts and feelings in her head, flowing down the drain along with the soap._ _

As she goes to leave, she checks in the mirror and sighs. The reflection stares dejectedly back, bedraggled to say the least. Her usually smooth blonde bob is ruffled, and she looks rather pale, anxiety draining all saturation from her features. Except her eyes, which still puffy and harbour a hint of red. Her clothes have no volume and hang dispiritedly on her slight frame. Not exactly what you would call sexy. _He's seen you in much worse states_ , she reminds herself, then stops. _But why does it matter what he thinks?_ Then a small red mark catches her eye. It rests just above her collarbone, visceral against the white skin of her neck. _A hickey. Oh, for god's sake_. She blushes slightly, in spite of herself. Knowing full well that makeup will not have the desired effect, she zips her hoodie up tight, hoping it covers the incriminating mark.

When she gets to the kitchen/dining area, he's already there. Sitting at the counter, hands hugging a cup of coffee and chatting away to Thor, face a mask of contentment. Exactly that, a mask. But Natasha sees beneath that. She can see how his eyes don't smile when his mouth does, just how tightly he's clenching the cup, and the flickers of internal torment. He seems...tense. Maybe it won't be how she imagined. _Is that good or bad? Stop being so fickle, Natasha._

__It's a stab to the gut when he sees who's standing in the doorway and the smile slides off his face, suddenly twisted in disgruntled displeasure. It's gone for a second, but she sees it, replaced by another, but the awkwardness and discord inside is much more palpable._ _

"Where's your Sunday best, Romanoff?" Tony raises his eyebrows as she walks over to the coffee machine, attempting to keep her step light. Her face however, does not at all mirror this.  
"You look terrible too, Stark," She replies, trying to keep her voice razor sharp, and failing. Natasha can feel Steve's eyes watching her. He feels a pang at her red eyes. Not quite from tears, no, her defences are too strong for that. But inflamed from weariness, from rubbing at them over and over again. The rubbing you do when you’re wishing things will be different when you open them again. 

_How does she manage to look so good in a baggy hoodie and ratty joggers?_ Despite the pain, Steve's mind speaks out of no volition of his own, and he quells the thought. But he can't help but study her, run his eyes over her slight form. He can't deny his attraction, the way his heart is suddenly beating a hundred miles an hour, how he feels the overwhelming heat of a rising blush when her eyes brush over him. How he wants to envelop her in a hug, kiss her until she can't breathe. But Steve does not do any of these things. Instead, when she turns her head to look at him, he quickly drops his gaze to the coffee, examining his mug in great detail.

__A 'Good morning' is right on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it hard and looks back at the machine as it hums softly._ _

__This does not go unnoticed by the others. Several pairs of eyes flit between the pair, as if perhaps trying to gauge what happened through telepathy. Tony's face fills with curiosity and he looks to Thor, who shrugs, frowning. Clint looks up from his newspaper and searches Natasha for anything. She tenses. Either he'll get it immediately, or he'll remain as (hopefully) clueless as the others. It seems the latter, as no gasp comes out of his mouth, his eyebrows don't raise and he doesn't tut. Instead, his brow furrows deeper. She relaxes. The machine dings and she collects her cup, padding over to the breakfast bar, eyes cast down._ _

__"Could you, uh..." She begins. "Could you shuffle your chair over a bit?" She asks.  
"Oh. Um, yeah. Of course," Steve mutters. Their eyes meet for a second as he shifts his stool before she rips them away and sits down. The others watch this whole performance, confusion etched all over their faces. Now the whole room is silent, apart from Tony's toast munching._ _

__"You know, I'm gonna..." Steve gestures behind himself weakly. "I'm gonna go down to the gym." He leaves his chair hurriedly. Natasha notices his mug is still half full.  
"Yeah, yeah me too." She says. His head snaps her way, eyes wide. "Not to the gym, I mean. Just...just to my room. Uh, see you guys later." She elaborates. They both nearly sprint out the room, out of opposite doors._ _

__The others watch through the glass and open doors as Natasha runs up the stairs, seemingly distraught, and Steve waits for the lift, tapping his foot, shaking his head and muttering to himself angrily. They look back at each other, astonished. Even Tony has stopped munching.  
"What the hell just happened."_ _


	2. talk to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Tony, running, and angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to the conclusion that rewriting is loathsome, but necessary.

_Thump._

Another punching bag flies across the room, seams bursting as it hits the ground and spilling sandy grains over the floor. Steve pays no heed, retrieving another from the steadily decreasing pile and hanging it wearily, chains jangling. He lets himself catch a little breath, slicking the gathering sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand before leaning his forehead into the rough material, as if steadying himself.

Everything feels rather blurred. There's a vignette around his vision and shapes shift in and out of focus, rippling as if after a penny drops into a pool. Waiting for the swooping to stop, his eyes scrunch shut tight, then open again to the same view. It's no use. He's all off kilter. The scales have tipped, equilibrium of his heart unsteadied. Steve is not sure he can stand still without stumbling. It's like the world's moving too fast around him, like running to catch up with a train that's always just a few metres ahead. At the moment, all he can hear is a sort of rushing sound, sort of like waves pounding the sand of a beach. There's a storm inside him. Those waves are solidifying into a tornado of feelings and thoughts and memories that just won't stay quiet. They push to the front of his mind, hover in front of his eyes, scrape his insides, pebbles risen from the deep. How he wishes they'd stop, it'd all stop. Slow down, just for a second, maybe two, just so he can breathe. Just so he can blink without feeling like he's going to pass out. All he can see is her, and it hurts so much. No matter how hard he tries, has been trying for the last half hour, her image just won't budge. Steve lifts his head from the bag and steps back, readying to attack. The punching is doing nothing to remove her from sight, but the pain in his hands is something to zero in on, at least.

The glow from the TV lights up her face against the darkness as she turns her head to look at him, forgetting the movie for a second as their eyes meet, a beam lighting up his insides. _Jab_. She lies on the bed underneath him, a dreamy expression taking over her features as he lowers to kiss her again. _Jab_. And worst of all, the look of total terror as her eyes land on him when she entered the kitchen that morning, framed by the doorway. _Jab_. The images go round and around in his head. If he's honest, it's torture, and he feels more woozy than when he started.

Steve strikes with more force, taking out every ounce of the anger and resentment he feels toward his own stupidity on the sack of sand before him. It doesn't feel like he's made a dent in the frustration, but what else is there to do? Free days are filled with sparring, walks in the town or the woods surrounding the compound, and movies, all with her at his side. How is he supposed to occupy himself now she's gone? It jolts him there, just how quickly he's gotten used to the idea of her absence. He's Steve Rogers, supposed to have the obstinacy of a mule, the most optimistic and resilient person out there. And how quickly has he given up? He should be with her, they should be talking, working this out. But a lot of crap was supposed to have happened. He's tired. So tired. His heart is exhausted. It's better to give up than to hurt the both of you by pushing, surely?

Steve pauses a second to wipe the sweat out of his face again. Is there a difference between sweat and tears? Perhaps perspiration is just your body crying. He goes to start again once more when he feels another presence in the room, whirling around to see Tony leaning against the door-frame, an inscrutable expression on his face as he walks forward to just off the mat.

"There's a fine for trashing equipment. You know that, right?" Tony's arms are crossed, a mockery of coolness over his face.  
"Stark I swear-" He breaks off, exhaling rapidly, lowering his tone. "What do you want, Tony?"  
"I know what happened," Tony starts, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.  
"What." Steve answers, ripping the tape from his hands. It's more of a statement than a question, with a note more impatience mixed in.  
"You and Romanoff. I know what happened," Tony repeats.  
Steve's head snaps up from his hands to study Tony's face for a second, searching for something before giving an enervated sigh and dropping the tape to the floor forcefully. "No you don't, you're just here for gossip, and I'm not going to tell you so stop fishing."  
There's silence for a second as Tony's face relaxes fully into an inquisitive expression: Steve was right. "What did she do?"  
"What makes you think it was her fault?" Steve replies.  
"You didn't exactly look all that happy to see her at breakfast, the look you gave her...Not friendly. And she looked terrified." He shrugs. "I just assumed..."  
"She didn't do anything." Steve slowly walks across the mat, past Tony to the bench, where he sits, head against the wall. _Except make me fall in love with her_.

Because that's what's happened. Steve has fallen in love with Natasha. Slowly, comfortably. So slowly they didn't even realise it was happening until the line was far out of sight. He wants to blame her for everything, for it all going wrong, for him not even regretting that night, no matter what it leads to, but he can't. The problem is he kissed her back, and harder. He had just as much a hand in this whole business as she did.  
He shouldn't feel like this. This is his best friend. Being in love with your best friend isn't _normal_. Steve actually feels like it's incest, how wrong it feels. Or seems, rather, because despite his hatred for their situation, loving Natasha is something Steve knows he couldn't regret in a million years, for it is that which just feels right. The problem is not that Steve loves Natasha. That would be something he could just about handle, on its own. It's the steps he took to dawn upon this epiphany. She knows, she must know. The things he whispered to her in the darkness...They make his cheeks colour. She must be disgusted by him. What he said, what he did...that's the problem.

Tony follows him. "What did you do, then?"  
He closes his eyes and a grimace curves his mouth. "Something unforgivable."  
"Oh come on." Tony raises his eyebrows. "It can't be-"  
"Trust me. You don't know." Steve slumps forward suddenly and rests his head in his hands.  
"Let us remind ourselves who's fault that is."  
Steve gives him what can only be described as a Look, but carries on. "I've lost her. I know I have." A note of panic is now strung through his voice. "She's my best friend and I...It was just so...And I feel so..."  
"Sorry?" Tony offers.  
Steve rests his chin on clenched fists. The nails bite into his palms, but he doesn't care. "Let's go with that." There's another minute of silence as they just sit there. Steve longs to get out of his own head, have a moment of relief. Tony watches his friend struggle with demons he can't see and sighs.  
"Talk to her."  
"I can't." Steve replies with complete conviction, and something resembling fear too.  
"You have to. If you ever want even a shot at repairing what you two had, talk to her." And with those wise, wise words of wisdom, Tony gets up and pats Steve's shoulder sympathetically before strolling out of the room, leaving Steve alone.

\-------

A knock at the door. Natasha doesn't even bother muttering assent, just grunts. Tony takes this as a 'come in', pushing the door wide and leaning against the doorframe, attempting to adopt a disappointed-father expression.

"I know what happened." Perhaps this time...  
"You're going to have to be more specific." She's blasé, not even bothering to look his way, still staring studiously at the quietly murmuring television, though it's clear as day she's not paying an ounce of attention to it. A faraway look haunts her eyes; they're misty and dark, like driving through smog at nighttime. She's seeing another time, another place - that much is obvious. Her expression betrays nothing of her thoughts, but her melancholic disposition, the slump in her shoulders, the droop of her eyelids, the slight grim twist at the corner of her mouth, the obvious lethargy in her limbs, suggest it's distasteful.

"You and Capsicle. I know wha-"  
"Oh, shut up." She interrupts irritably. "No you fucking don't. I'm sick of your constant gossip seeking, and if that's all you're here for, close the door on your way out."  
Tony huffs. Like Area 51 these two. There's no use asking Clint, or anyone else for that matter. He'd already accosted them after the whole performance this morning. He'll just have to bug it out of them.  
"You know you have to talk to him."  
"I'll be surprised if he can still even look my way."  
Tony is confused, to say the least. She's talking as if it was all her fault, when Steve explicitly told him the very opposite. "What did he do that was so bad?"  
"This was in no way his fault."  
"I would believe you, but Steve said-"  
"So you have already harassed him." Tony shrugs in response. Her eyes go back to the television, a flicker passing through them. "How is he?"  
"Not exactly on the edge of life."  
"No, I mean-" Her voice catches. "How does he seem? Is he...angry? Neutral? What did he say?" She still doesn't look at him, though her voice has gone up a few keys, and the hand holding the remote won't stop shaking.  
"I wouldn't want to be the punching bag." 

Natasha groans and visibly sags lower against the headboard, but after a moment she looks to the door.  
“Stark, get out of my doorway.” A cold glare takes over for a second, but vanishes as soon as he exhales through his teeth exasperatedly.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Natasha rocks back and forth slowly, rubbing her hands over her haggard face, raking through her hair, gripping on the short blonde locks and tugging painfully, digging her nails into her scalp. How could things have gotten so bad in twenty four hours? How could something so perfect turn to something so warped, so twisted? Friend turned stranger. A ripe fruit rotting. One decision. One minuscule thought process leading to all this.

The window is wide open, and a cool blanket settles over her as the breeze wanders over the sill. Her senses claw at it, rake in what they can of the brisk wind. It’s refreshing on her nerves, running briskly over her skin. It’s clearing her head, ushering out the tumbleweed and dead flies, though minimally. Natasha decides she wants more, and is happy to discard the ratty joggers and hoodie for clingy lycra running gear. The scruffy clothes are a protection of sorts, making her feel less vulnerable, less exposed. But at the same time, they’re only increasing her feeling of suffocation, so the tightness is a welcome change. The common floor is empty now, and she slips down the stairs (she’s feeling healthy, okay?) and outside without question. As promised, a bracing gust immediately stiffens her bones, goosebumps scaling the exposed skin as she breaks into a jog.

Allowing her feet to take over, Natasha lets her mind float loose. She feels it rise above her head, mingle with the clouds, and lets a moment of peace steal through her. All she can feel now is her feet hitting the tarmac, and soon grass, and then dirt, at an increasing pace, sending shocks into her joints as the burn begins. A tiny smile twists her lips as the trees envelop her, legs carrying her without instruction down a track not so well-known to the other residents of the facility. Natasha still feels the cold, but it’s glancing, outside the aura of heat she emits. Her skin is a furnace from the exertion and she feels like a star in space, a burning burst of light spinning with relentless relish in the barren wasteland of darkness. A quiet ataraxy sheathes her mind as she ploughs deeper through the trees, as though every fearful thought and emotion is trailing behind as a balloon above her head. The popping is inevitable, she knows, but for now, she’s allowed to be free. The burning in her legs accompanies a heaving chest and ragged breaths, like swallowing knives. Natasha revells in it. This freedom...how she’s missed it. Running is always a lesser vocation on her list, preferring to spar or dance, but every time she does it she wonders why it’s not a daily venture. Who needs therapy when you can fly?

Sunlight ruptures the gloom and she breaks back onto the grass, trees fading behind her. The tranquility is abruptly punctured by the sight of the compound, growing larger every second at the end of the concrete. The home stretch. Dread seeps back into the nooks and crannies of her brain, apprehension a weight in her chest. Nevertheless, her legs pump harder, sprinting with everything she has, a determination to stretch herself to the limit swallowing her. Natasha slows from terminal velocity when she reaches the wall and checks her watch, sighing. Less than an hour, dammit. But at least she got a PB. The grey stone presses against her back. Natasha knows she should be stretching - she’ll ache tomorrow if she doesn’t - but she just wants a minute to breathe. Heat and perspiration overwhelm her in a wave. She blows a flyaway strand from her eyes and it fastens to her temple. She’s still not sure about the blonde. In fact, she’s kind of regretting it. Oh well. Too late now.

And then. Footsteps. Peering around the corner, her breath hitches as Steve emerges from the doors, and she slams her back against the wall again. He doesn’t even look around, just settles into a jog that would put sprinters to shame. She watches his retreating back, feeling his pounding feet on her heart rather than the ground. Suddenly her chest feels tight, but it’s not exhaustion. She wouldn’t usually be alone right now. She would be next to him, paces matching, laughter weaving amongst the tall trunks along with taunting and teasing and competition. He would be here. He would be next to her and they would breathe together and- and-

A swell of anguish washes over her, its cold fingers squeezing her throat, stretching out inside her head, as if summoning all those incapacitating voices and whispers and murmurings, those from long ago and those from yesterday.

_Natalia…_ A tiny girl sing-songs in the same moment as a man’s harsh hiss. She slams her head back into the wall, hoping to knock the voices out, and perhaps stamp on them when they hit the ground, but it does nothing. _Don’t try to hold on, Talia_. The familiar whisper echoes inside her skull. _Nothing lasts forever_. She flinches and grates her head along the stone again, jaw clenching tight while her nails make tiny crescent moons in her palm. _Love is for children. You are weak, Talia. Weak._ A groan of frustration comes from the back of her throat.  
“ _Пожалуйста. Пожалуйста, не сейчас_.” Her tongue lapses into Russian, begging the invisible figures. [Please. Please not now.] Here is not the place for an episode. Natasha had first told him about the voices, the constant whispering, a few months ago. He'd helped her silence them, and as a result the attacks became less frequent. And when they came, they were managed and he was at her side, hugging her until she could open her eyes again. But now it was just her, and the wind and the stone. No, now was not the time for an episode.

_Breathe_. His voice breaks through the cacophony, almost as painful. So familiar it makes her heart hurt. _Just breathe_.

He would be here. She would be in his arms, or this wouldn’t be happening at all, not if he was here, and not if she hadn’t built a wall between them. Another ache of wretchedness. _If only you were better, Natalia_.

__Hoping for the unforgiving frigidity of the concrete to diffuse into her, ground her to this reality, she presses herself harder into the wall, to no avail. The warmth she felt in her body while running is no longer comforting, but stifling. Like flames licking her curiously, tendrils twisting up and around, cuffing her to the side of the facility. Natasha resists the urge to scream as a hand is suddenly clamped over her mouth, more gripping her arms and legs, holding her down._ _

_Not real not real not real_

__She chants in her head. She knows it's not. Just a pitiful attempt at a hallucination, a nightmare turned day borne._ _

__But someone is crushing her windpipe and she can feel herself choking. Her lungs crave air that should come easily. A slap across the face burns her cheek, the heat rising in a flush, vivid red in startling contrast. Though it's for no reason. She knows it is. Natasha knows that if she stared into the window like a mirror, there would be no mark, and no fire, and no hands._ _

_All in your head all in your head all in your head_

__Natasha reaches for the breeze that is inevitably rushing over her trembling body, clings to the sensation like a lifeline, any kind of light at the end of this tunnel of torment._ _

_Not real not real not real_

__Her senses grope for the tingling cold, and her muscles relax as they become fruitful. The dark in her vision slowly subsides, and Natasha comes back to reality. Her body is shivering violently, hairs raised defiantly, goosebumps alerting her to the sudden temperature drop. Her hands go to her face, cradling her head and desperately forcing down a sob for the second time that day. That was a bad one. Usually she can just grit her teeth, clench her fists, and they'll subside quickly. She sometimes wonders whether the rest of them notice her sudden minutes of quiet, but if they do they don't comment. She's learnt by now it's worse when she's alone, which is why Steve always makes sure he's next to her. He has Friday alert him when Ms Romanoff begins to toss and turn at night. He envelops her in a hug, stroking her back and talking about his day, asking about hers in her ear. Or at least did. That's all in the past now, Natasha. Time to learn how to deal with yourself alone. No security blankets available._ _

__Natasha is becoming terrified. She's terrified of herself. Terrified of the possibility, no, the reality, that she no longer has him. She's terrified to admit to herself just how much she needs Steve Rogers. She needs him more than anything in this world, more than she’s ever needed anyone, but like everyone else she pushed him away like blowing away an insect when he got too close. She pushed him away by bringing him too close. Oh, the irony._ _

Natasha can still feel everything. She can still feel everything, and that's what terrifies her most. When she closes her eyes, his hands are still roaming her skin, languid in some places and rough in others. Breathing in her ear. The utterance he whispered among it all. The three word sentence Natasha had been just as ready to say back...had other things not...got in the way. _I love you_. Just once. But once was all she needed, or so she thought. 

_Courage, Natasha._

__The way he gazed at her made her want to melt into a little puddle on the floor. Made her skin burn pleasantly, ignite tiny fires, electric crackles wherever his eyes, his breath, his fingers landed. Which, consequently, was everywhere. But fire means passion, and passion means feeling, and feeling means weakness, and weakness means pain. Which is why the way Natasha is beginning to realise the way she feels about Steve, isn't normal. What they did last night, wasn't normal. Which ultimately is a whole hell of a lot of trouble._ _

__\-------------_ _

_Ping._

__The familiar tone rings out from the other side of the room as Steve exits the bathroom, water still running off him in rivulets. He hops over, dodging the piles of clothing that still dot the floor. Last night's shirt slumps under the windowsill, trousers crumple at the foot of the bed. Reminders he does not need.  
Surprisingly, it's Natasha's name that pops up alongside the message. He reads it and his stomach drops. _ _

_We need to talk. Costa. 30 mins._

__The message reads starkly, blankly. It's impassive. Completely bare. It's white against a rainbow of other texts that hover above this 'conversation', still, a painful reminder of what they had just two days ago. It's been a few hours. Not even a day. If everything has changed, if he's supposed to be okay with feeling this lost for the rest of his life, Steve doesn't want this reality. He doesn't want to live in a time where she's so close, yet just out of reach, and she gets further away every minute. One day they'll be strangers. People who used to work together. People who used to know each other. The thought makes Steve sick to his stomach. But he gets ready, because she's giving him a chance. She's offering him a lifeline, and he'll be damned if he's too terrified of his own feelings not to go._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't a disappointment of a second chapter. Feedback, comments and kudos are welcome!


	3. talking leads to touching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of forgiving and forgetting...kind of.

As always, Natasha is the first thing he sees as he rounds the corner, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stops a second before ambling over, stops to survey her a minute, and collect his thoughts. That’s what he was supposed to be doing on the walk over. He had intended to use the ten minutes in between the compound and the square as time to frame precisely what he wants to say, form the perfect apology, taste his words before he spits them out. Intended. Instead, he had pulled at a loose string in his pocket, and trusted his legs to lead him in the right direction as his mind wandered down avenues not altogether productive; most of the doors he opened were home to memories of her. Try as he might to focus on the task at hand, whenever he devises an acceptable sentence starter, her skin and her scars and her lips hijack his train of thought, scattering the words all over the floor in no discernible order. Unlike earlier, when all he could think about was erecting a hasty barricade against these feelings, these images, now he does allow for one to infiltrate, just to remember what it is they’re avoiding. He can’t make any intelligent points if he’s not properly informed, can he?

His pace slows as he welcomes the feeling of her lips on his, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Perhaps for the best. Especially when apologising for something he only half regrets.

Natasha sits on a bench beside the coffee shop, looking drastically more composed than when he last saw her. Her legs cross, hands fold in her lap, jaw sets with a startlingly unfamiliar determination. A crisp breeze has the collar of her long coat upturned in protection, the chill belying the swift approach of spring. All hues of flower bloom enthusiastically in boxes that line the shop fronts. It appears she’s watching people walk past, analysing them as they go about their lives in oblivion. You could have guessed she was quite the anthropologist, and Steve doesn’t think you’d be entirely wrong. He and Natasha have sat in this exact spot on numerous previous occasions, and a favourite game of theirs is people-watching. Ordinary people: business women, bin men, toddlers and teenagers. You might have thought they’d look down with scorn, but if you looked properly you’d see such longing to be among them in their eyes it would be startling. Natasha, obviously, is the best at the game. Steve constantly marvels at her ability to scan someone for a second, and more or less recount elements of their life story. Not quite Sherlock Holmes, but pretty damn close.

This close scrutiny is a facade, as when Steve squints, he can spot that her eyes have a film over them. Even from this distance, he can tell that her eyes aren’t flitting between strangers like usual, but staring unseeing at a particular square of paving. He can tell she's not seeing the crowd with their coffee, but is pondering something else, another time, another place. Preoccupation has taken over her as well. Despite this, her eyes clear and, as if by morphic resonance, flick his way. Steve wills his legs to move, cover the fact that he’s been outright staring at her for the last few minutes, and he jerks forward. Not obvious at all.

They avoid each other’s eyes as he sits, and Steve thinks he sees her shift closer to her edge, not imperceptibly enough. They perch centimetres apart, limbs actively tensed and pulled in to avoid any accidental brushing of skin. Apprehension is so thick in the air Steve thinks he might choke. He has the urge to just break the silence between them, to comment about the weather maybe, or just ask how her day has been so far (which would be infinitely stupid, but right now he’ll say anything). They say wise men talk because they have something to say while fools talk because they have to say something, and Steve is happy to be the fool. It’s been proved multiple times over in the last twenty four hours, so why not embrace it, huh? At least he knows it.

He stands abruptly. “You want anything?”  
Natasha snaps her eyes from the ground and resists the urge to mutter _yeah, you_ , seeing as he’s gesturing towards the coffee shop next to them.  
“Oh. Yeah. Yes please.”  
“Dark like your soul…Americano, right?” Steve clicks his hands into finger guns, and then instantly regrets it. He starts to move away with her order, as he knows it like the back of his hand. She’s been getting the same since...forever. And yet-  
“Uh, not today, thanks.” Natasha winces internally as the smile fades from his face. _You’re supposed to be going back to normal, not deliberately being difficult, idiot_. “I thought I might try a green tea.”  
“Oh.” He looks deflated, and Natasha kicks herself for mentioning it. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to switch things up.”  
“My thoughts exactly.” She tries for a smile as he turns away, but it’s watery and comes out as closer to a grimace. He doesn’t return it, and Natasha’s heart falls to her boots. They can’t even order coffee anymore, a mindless task. What’s holding them back? Why is this so difficult? Situations like these cannot be that rare, and she’s sure normal people would just laugh it off and carry on with their lives. Why is this so hard?  
_Because you’re not normal. Nothing about either of you is normal._

Her gaze drops back to the ground. There is something she didn’t notice in her previous daze. The square is pristine, and yet there is a crack at her feet. Where the paving splits, a weed pokes, vomit of the earth. The green shoot is a sickly sight, and Natasha can’t help likening it to the current situation. Her and Steve’s relationship is the concrete, smooth, perfect, and the altercation is the weed. Unexpected, damaging, and inconvenient for everyone involved. Then she stops herself. She truly has lost the plot. You know you have when you start using weeds as metaphors.

The café doors swing shut, and Natasha becomes aware that her mind is oddly blank. She can’t even remember what she was thinking about before he got here, now that every ounce of attention, every cell, every nerve, is turned towards him. Like she’s a compass needle, wavering to whichever direction is her north, her constant, her reason. The back of her neck prickles, knowing he’s somewhere behind.

People tell her the Red Room was wrong, but maybe they weren’t, not about everything. They were right about love. It does make you weak. Love may be the strongest thing in the world, but that’s probably because it demands everything, devours every fibre of your being and concentrates every scrap of strength on needing this one person. Love burns you up like a tinderbox and leaves a shell on departure. It’s the best thing in the world, but also hurts like a bitch, seemingly intent on vivisection. It’s been such a long time...Natasha has forgotten what it’s like to be in love. She has forgotten what it feels like to want someone so much it feels like you’re being stabbed. She has forgotten having the highest highs, and the lowest lows. And until last night, she had forgotten that sex was supposed to feel good. Surprisingly, it’s not supposed to hurt. She was supposed to moan, but not in pain. It was supposed to elicit _pleasure_. After enough seductions, enough missions, enough men, Natasha has realised that there’s a difference between ensnaring a target and what she and Steve did. She slept with Steve because she wanted to, not because it was necessary. There was no feeling of grease afterwards, like something to wash of. Just a warm blanket of rapture. And another thing: she and Steve made love. However much they may regret it (or not), they made love, and there is the likely possibility it was the singular best experience of Natasha’s existence.

The door audibly opens and shuts again, and she straightens as he sits again, handing her the steaming take-away cup awkwardly. Her partiality to green tea mainly stemmed from the legend of its calming qualities, and Natasha must admit: her heart does beat a little slower on inhalation. Her awareness still stretches out so she's skittish, flinching visibly when he suddenly coughs.

There’s a long moment where they just sip their drinks, too preoccupied to care about the scalding temperatures. Mindlessly, Steve wonders how the passersby would react to the knowledge that it is Captain America and the Black Widow sitting on that bench just there, engaged in a cold silence.

"You said we should talk," Steve says, after swallowing the lump in his throat a dozen times and coming to the conclusion that nothing will ever get done if no one says anything.  
"Yes." Her tone is unnaturally clipped with nerves. Natasha still can’t think of what to say. What could she say? What could she possibly say to convey the- the- the emotion (for want of a better word) of this situation? Should she apologise? But it wasn't solely her fault. This conversation will inevitably lead to the why, and she's not sure she's ready to confront exactly why they did...that. Outside her own head, at least.

"I don't know what to say," She admits.  
"I know."  
Natasha looks up from her tea, but still doesn’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on the two toddlers falling over each other at the foot of the fountain, and resists the urge to smile genuinely. That opportunity came and went. Blonde tresses blow across her face in the subtle wind, the scents of coffee and jasmine riding the crests of the breeze.

“Maybe we should get our facts straight before jumping to conclusions.”  
“We woke up together naked, I think that’s explanation enough,” She spits. There’s no point feigning amnesia, fabricating some other illogical justification for the obvious. Not when the recollection is branded in their minds. Not when it’s all they can think about.  
"I guess that's true." His voice is level, not exactly a mirror of his mind, where it feels like balls are bouncing off the walls in a frenzy. "So we slept together-" He talks over her muted muttering: _oh, we did a lot more than that_. There seems to be a disconcerting venom to her tone that she can’t pull back. Now they've got going, Natasha seems to have no filter. "Fine, we had sex." Despite that, she winces at his forthrightness, unusual for Steve. "So what?"

"Exactly." She says after a moment. "This doesn't change anything." Remember when she said no pretending, yeah, about that...  
"A mistake. A drunken mistake. It won't happen again." 

It goes off like a checklist in her head. That's the _what_ out the way. Possibly the _why_ too. 

Natasha is perfectly happy to ignore the fact that their serums prevent either from getting drunk, and that there was not a drop of liquor to be seen in his room last night. That's a minor detail. Intoxication can be the scapegoat on this one.  
"Yes."  
Silence follows. She now thinks they're being intentionally verbose, just putting in words, responding where there needs no reply, filling a silence which is deafening with awkwardness. How she wishes for this to be over. 

"Will you forgive me?"  
She turns to him in surprise, catching his eyes fully for the first time. "Forgive you?"  
"I feel like I took advantage of you. You were vulnerable and I exploited that. This was my fault, I-"  
"No." She cuts him off. "It was both of us. We made that decision collectively, whether we like it or not." There's another long pause before he takes her hand suddenly, noting how icy her fingers are in comparison to his large, warm ones.  
"You're my best friend. This is just an unexpected hump in the road. We're still _best friends_."  
_I wish I could believe that_. She swallows. "Best friends who made a mistake."  
"Exactly."  
She turns her head, smiling as his thumb runs over her fingers. It looks like a real smile. "We'll be fine."

However, that tiny turn of the head has brought them closer. They both tense as they realise just how small the space between them really is, breath mingling, noses inches apart. 

Her eyes sparkle, twinkle, glint. Steve feels there are whole galaxies in there, billions of glimmering stars. The universe contained in an iris. The thought feels familiar, the neuron connection used, as in a moment of déja vu he realises it's exactly what he determined while fumbling with the zip of her jeans just 12 hours ago, and immediately shoves away the flash of recollection.

Natasha feels her entire breath leaving her, which is stupid. So stupid. The height of idiocy that her heart should speed up and her head should feel light and her skin tingly as their gazes fix. Just after what they'd agreed. So stupid. But the problem is it's not voluntary, not something to be switched off. Apparently this new reaction to Steve is something out of her control, something primal, which she immensely hates. Especially as their heads suddenly mutually tilt. Her eyes even begin to flutter shut before Natasha comes back to herself with a jolt. This is exactly what they just agreed _not_ to do. What they agreed was a one time thing. Yet something possessed her to nearly try and kiss him again, and it's really annoying.

She stands abruptly from the bench, waking him from the trance too, foggy eyes clearing suddenly. He blinks.  
"I'm glad we're on the same page." Natasha sips her tea. Cold.  
He rises slowly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Oh. Yeah."  
"Walk back with me?" She offers. They're maintaining normalcy, right?  
"Of course."

Their arms don't link, hands don't relax into each other's grip as before. Instead they fall into stride, staring at the ground. The pace keeps faltering as they step out of time. Their feet don't match, strides uneven, making what could have been, used to be, a light-hearted stroll into an uncomfortable hike.


	4. simple lies, hard truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of bewilderment and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl, I hate this chapter. No matter how much I redraft and rewrite it, it remains stubbornly short and trivial. Just think of it as mainly a filler until things get more interesting.

As soon as they get back to the compound, having walked in painful silence for ten minutes, they split ways. The ride to the living floor is mercifully short, relieving them of each other's company as soon as they step out of the lift. Surprisingly, most of the inhabitants are still spread across the kitchen/living room, apparently taking advantage of the unexpected holiday. It would appear that the world’s criminal masterminds and their gangs are taking a break, even just for the day.  
The couple hastens in opposite directions to their respective apartments, an ill-timed glance of doleful longing passed over the shoulder at just the wrong moment.

Had they caught each other's eyes, seen they were not alone in their pining, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps they would have found each other, met halfway and dropped the masks. But all they saw was the other's cold retreating back in the other direction, and so shut their mind, forced the other's image out of conscious thinking instead to hover at the edge, tingeing melancholy on seams between thoughts.

Natasha knows then just how big of liars they actually are. If they had actually meant anything they said, this would have been swept under the carpet and they’d be going in the same direction, already back to the quips and the laughing and the genuineness. They’d be back to sparring, or video games, or the Star Wars movie marathon they never finished. Again, Natasha chastises herself. There have been too ‘if’s in the last 24 hours, none of them beneficial to anyone’s mental health.

The others' eyes follow them, conversations halting as they entered. When both are out of sight - and earshot - Tony turns back to them, resolution on his face. 

"Right, heads together." He moves to a stool and shuffles it forward, beckoning. "Brainstorm time." He waits for them to comply, and they do, forming a loose circle, albeit reluctantly.  
"What could have happened between Stevenat?" There's silence for a moment as they think, ideas coming fruitless apart from the obvious. Midday is too early for this kind of focus. Leave that until alcohol is circling.  
"Something bad." Clint offers.  
"Today on ‘Things We Knew Already’..." Tony mutters, and the archer shrugs offhandedly in response. "Don't act like you don't care, Katniss, you've been stewing all day. Any interesting theories?"  
"Zilch." Clint twirls a pen between two fingers, an acrobat between ribbons. 

This is not strictly true. Clint has quite a few theories, but they're separate dots, waiting to be connected. Half-formed speculation, just waiting to pounce on a complementing partner to clear the picture.

Another pause.

"Come on, people. If all the brawn belongs to Spangles, there must be a few brains between us." He looks around the circle.  
"I guess they argued...right?" Wanda provides hesitantly.  
"What about, if so?"  
“Waandaa,” Tony begins, and she frowns. “You know your mind-reading trick, well-”  
“No,” She snaps. “I don’t do that anymore.”  
“Party pooper.”  
"It seems you're great at putting our ideas down, but not great at offering them yourself. How about you rub a few neurons together?" Sam huffs irritably, leaning back, arms crossed.   
"Why do you think I'm here? Trust me, you lot were my last resort." Tony offers. There are more irked huffs in response.   
"Maybe it's built up over time. The anger or whatever. Maybe they just snapped."  
"What build up? They're Steve and Natasha. They were fine and then they weren't."

Thor leans forward. "Did you not interrogate them earlier, Stark?"  
"They weren't exactly ready with answers."  
"This is going nowhere, can we get back to the box set?" Sam whines.  
He’s right. Every suggestion is shot down instantly, contradicting evidence and scepticism puncturing holes in the wings. Each suspicion leads to dead end after dead end. There is just no sense to it.

"They can barely look at each other out of shame and embarrassment. But they're not angry, not at each other. Just themselves."  
"Everything is back to front." Wanda adds dejectedly.

The team is tired and nerves are twitchy. Though they care about Steve and Nat, they are annoyed by Tony's games, fruitlessly puzzling over a problem not to be solved in one afternoon. There are no solutions without problems, no problems without solutions. All they want is to relax.

A smirk tugs at the corner of Wanda's mouth, lips curling with mirth in an attempt to lighten the mood.  
"Maybe they slept together." She jokes sarcastically.  
Several people burst out laughing, Sam splutters coffee all over his trousers as Bucky whacks him impatiently on the back. With his metal arm, mind. 

Clint laughs along, mocking the absurdity of it all. And then his mind squeals to a stop, brakes engaged suddenly. _Maybe they slept together_.  
This sparks something in him, acting as the catalyst in the reaction, the dawn of enlightenment. Dots finally connect, links solidify.

_They blame themselves._  
 _They were fine and then they weren't._  
 _Something between last night and this morning._   
_"What build up?"_

It's so obvious. Revelation smacks Clint square in the chest and his head starts to spin. 

It all makes so much _sense_. The avoidance. The blame. The pining, the longing in those looks over the shoulder, the twitching when they sat next to each other, itching to touch. It's right there, in plain sight, if you look at it properly. The team's just blind. Or maybe too narrow minded. If you take out the lens they've all been looking through, the friends lens, it's glaring. To a stranger, unmistakable. 

But of course they slept together. Well, he thinks, you know what I mean. 

Clint would be lying if he said he'd seen it coming. Only in hindsight does he notice all the warning signs.   
But he's not completely surprised, either. 

They left dinner and adjourned to Steve's room last night, as usual. To talk or watch or listen or work or simply just _be_. They can sometimes go an hour in each other's presence without speaking, the only acknowledgement being sporadic whispers. Be they working or watching or simply lying on the bed, top and tail. Just being near each other makes everything easier, it seems.

And their appearances scream it. Mussed hair is so clearly sex hair. The baggy clothing, interesting use of the hood, etc. She was definitely attempting to conceal a hickey. He assumed she was moving sorely from training, but...

The others are wrong when they brush away a 'build-up': there most certainly was one, but it was so subtle they didn't notice.  
Just the way they looked at each other began to change. Less amused sparkle and more starstruck heart eyes. The hugs became more intimate, the way they would loosely link hands when walking changed from _I need a leash to stop you running off_ to _please don't let go_. The lines were blurring. Clint supposes they probably didn't notice the infatuation development themselves. 

It's indisputable. They have the biggest crush. On each other. Suddenly it spilled over last night, as one of them kissed the other, and things went from there. 

And now it's so terribly awkward, so terribly painful. They think they've ruined their friendship forever, blame themselves for 'taking advantage' of the other one, when in fact, it's only ruined because they want to do it again, again and again and again, because they liked it. 

Or perhaps it's not ruined, just changed. It's like a plaster has been ripped off, skin exposed and vulnerable to the weather, the ever changing tides of passion and anguish and revelation that batter it suddenly as shelter is removed. Or their eyes have been forced open, like they were wandering blind but comfortable in the dark, not knowing where they were going but trusting the one who clutches them tight so inexorably they learned to sprint without seeing, and only after diving off a cliff do they realise just how far they've fallen. 

At this realisation, Clint suddenly slaps a hand over his mouth, leaning back in his seat.   
"Oh shit. Oh crap." The others suddenly turn to him, laughter dying out. "Natasha, you really are in a tight spot aren't you?..."  
"Wait, what? Clint? What is it?"  
"Did you figure it out?"  
"They-" 

He pauses, weighing his options. He could tell the others, but this is a situation to be handled with great care, not a ball to be thrown all around the circle and outside of it. There's a reason the pair in question have not announced it to the world with embarrassed grins but laughing heartily, why it's a secret. There's a reason why they're taking this seriously.

"Keep stewing. I'm going to fry that woman right now."  
"No! Stop, tell us!" Tony physically reaches out to grab at Clint as he hurriedly stumbles out of his chair, nearly toppling in his attempts to stop the man in the know from leaving.   
"You have to tell us!" They yell.

Clint gambols out of the room, popping his head round the doorframe in reply, cackling before shooting in the direction of the apartments. "That's a secret I'll never tell."

At that moment. Steve himself strolls in, coat discarded and hands shoved in his pockets. A frown seems to be the default setting of his features now, but his brow furrows even deeper at Clint’s giddiness. Whatever it is that’s got him this happy, it won’t end well.


	5. kiss or swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of mischief and flashbacks.

Clint bounds up the stairs, his usually feather-light assassin's feet landing heavily on every other step on the way to Natasha's room. He's really bloody hoping she's in there, 'cause he's just sprinted up three flights of stairs. His head's spinning, and it's not just the rush of adrenaline.

Natasha and Steve. Steve and Natasha. It has a nice ring to it, but perhaps that's just due to the years of platonism it used to encompass, the intimate amity that became a constant thrumming, the backing beat to life at the compound. No one considered that there might be more planes to the shape, that the square could become a cube, or might already be, might have been for years.

The thought doesn't feel weird. It feels natural. Like sunrise after the moon's descent, or the rainbow after a storm. Like it was inevitable, and they were all waiting unwittingly for the other shoe to drop. But they might as well have killed three people rather than kissed. They're acting as if it's a crime, for god's sake. All that hiding and skittishness, Clint's half expecting to find a body in the bathtub.

Alas, after several insistent raps on her door, FRIDAY calmly notifies him that Agent Romanoff is not behind the door.  
"Then where the hell is she?" He says, mostly to himself.  
"Agent Romanoff is in the Studio."  
"Thanks FRIDAY." And with that he makes for the lift. There's no way he's running all the way to the basement. These joints are too old for that.

The lift doors finally open and Clint hurries to the window. Mist acts as a complete obscurant, but Tchaikovksy murmurs through the crack between door and frame, muffled. He teases it open softly, and keeps to the shadows as he steps inside, immediately overwhelmed by the heat and volume of the music. He can almost feel it vibrating through him, see the room shaking. The mirrors to the front are steamed too, evidence of hard work and pain and sweat. 

She stands in the centre, head down. Her short hair is tied back from her face, though a few strands tickle her eyelids. They are not enough however to eclipse how drawn, haggard, her face is. Clint could swear she's trembling a little. Then her foot sets in fourth and she turns in time with the music, fouette after fouette, double pirouettes inserted every so often to keep balance and momentum.  
Until the music picks up the pace and she struggles to keep up, quick turns lagging behind the gradually forming crescendo, until one turn sends her off balance and she falls out of it, walking into a lazy fifth position. Her arms fall from first to her sides, fists clenching, eyes screwing shut as she bites her lip. 

Clint feels his heart go out to her then. Natasha looks...like he's never seen her. He's seen her terrified, furious, ecstatic, devastated...But never like this. Never so...so lost, so ashamed, riddled with such self-hatred. He can see her nails, though bitten to the quick, digging into her palms. 

Pain is her lifeline in this moment. Physical pain, it's the only thing anchoring her to the real world, keeping her from curling back into her own head, that where she desperately wishes to escape.

The music has stopped and her head twitches suddenly in the silence, as if she's heard something, someone talking in her ear. For a moment Clint thinks he's been revealed, but no. 

“Я сделан из мрамора.” _I am made of marble_. He barely hears the whisper fall from her lips. "снова." _Again_. And so she goes back to fourth, resorting now to consecutive pirouettes. He watches and can't help marvel at the six she executes seemingly perfectly. At least to Clint, but she pushes the heels of her palms to her eyes, muttering harshly.  
"нет." _No_. "снова." _Again_. He gets the feeling this is not the first reiteration. Only this time she falls out of the third, muffling a frustrated scream by clamping a hand over her mouth, stumbling to the mirror and slamming a fist and her forehead against it, breathing heavily. He feels a pain in his heart along with hers. His best friend, his partner, his sister, is _hurting_. 

After a pause he hears her speak again, though this time it's addressing him. "How long are you going to stand there in the shadows like a creep."  
Slowly, he reveals himself, stepping from the gloom into the pool of light. "Tasha..."  
"I used to be able to do ten." She begins, and he's glad to see that she can't bring herself to care that he's seeing her like this. He's glad to see that they still have no filters around each other, that even though her walls are up she trusts him. "Now four is a struggle." He assumes she's talking about the stuttering pirouettes.  
"That looked like a pretty perfect six."  
"Pretty perfect is not enough." She looks him in the eyes. "Six is not enough." A silence slips between them as she swallows, looking down at her hands.  
"I'm losing it, Clint. I can feel it. It's not that I'm not strong enough, if anything I'm stronger, but the skill..." She trails off, still staring at her palms. "I'm losing it. You saw what just happened. I can't do it anymore. Not like I used to."  
"Don't tell me that's what's troubling you, Tasha."  
She sighs, slicking back stray strands. "Why are you here, Clint." Her arms cross tiredly. "Taking a leaf from Tony's book?"  
"I don't need to grill." He walks closer, what he hopes is a sympathetic expression on his face. Something changes on hers, something like a fearful realisation.  
"Because I already know." He continues.

Natasha feels like her heart stops. She looks back at his face. Her eyes search his, for anything. Disappointment, condemnation, disapproval. But all she sees is sympathy, and that's perhaps more terrifying. 

All at once her face drops, like it's been held taut for too long, like a curtain shrouding a spectacle. Clint can almost hear the sound of the mask clattering to the floor. 

Through the crushing feeling of remorse, Natasha feels liberated. _Someone knows_. Someone who's not Steve. Of course, this creates the problem that if one can figure it out, anyone can (Clint doesn't even claim to be a genius), but right now she just feels rather light. _Someone knows_. 

He watches as her shoulders slump and the bags under her eyes become suddenly more pronounced, exhaustion taking over.  
"I never could hide anything from you."  
"Teaches you for trying."  
She shrugs, and walks over to a bench at one end of the studio, where a water bottle stands half empty. He follows suit, sitting and leaning against the wall.  
"So I'm right?"  
"You haven't asked anything yet."  
He coughs, suddenly awkward. "You and Steve," For once he doesn't use any derogatory nicknames, knowing that to Natasha, he's just Steve. Probably not 'just' anything actually, but he's hers, hers to love. Clint has enough evidence for that at least. "You and Steve...did it?"  
She rolls her eyes. "Mmm."  
"If you love him why are you avoiding him?"  
Her eyes fly to his, wide. "Nobody ever said-"  
"They didn't have to."  
"I hate it when you do that." She huffs, and he chuckles.

Her head's a scale, tipping one way and the other. How much to tell? How much to lose? This is Clint after all.

"What, when I'm right?"  
"As rare as it happens." There's a pause. "You’re right. I love him. I'm in love with him, and it’s destroying me.” Clint puts an arm around her bare shoulders in futile consolation, as if in an attempt to keep her from breaking apart. Natasha swigs from her bottle and leans into him. “I never thought I'd fall in love again."  
"Banner-"  
"And I thought you knew me, Barton. I never loved Bruce. No..." She shakes off some crowding memories, voice catching. "James, he- he was the last person I fell for."  
Clint seeks to lighten the mood, knowing this spiral into the past will do nothing for raising her spirits. "I guess that's nice and all, but I really came here to ask what our guy Steve is like in bed."  
She cracks a smile, the first one, the first real one, in a while.  
"I'm serious!" She whacks his arm, laughing lightly. "How was it?"  
She takes a deep breath, relenting. "It was..."

_A movie is playing in the background, The Phantom Menace, but for once Natasha isn’t engrossed. She and Steve lean into each other as Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi frolic about on screen. Her knees are pulled to her chest and his arm drapes around her shoulders loosely. Usually his heat is a cosy warmth, almost like a blanket. Something Natasha can relax into and sometimes fall asleep. However, tonight is a different story. The heat has her more awake every second, and something about it has her pulsing with electricity. Every time she touches him she fears a static shock, and then wonders if he feels it too. Perhaps it’s time to find out._

_She turns her head slightly to run her eyes over him, her best friend, and a hum goes through her._ (That was the start of the stupidity. Acting on a ‘hum’). _Mischief glinting in her eye, she drops a leg to hang over the sofa like his do. She then begins to stroke his ankle with her foot, dragging it up his achilles and jeans-clad calf. She’s still staring at him, searching for any kind of reaction to her games. One of his hands slowly drifts to her knee, but seemingly not in fulmination. She stares at it a second, then looks back at him. His face is completely neutral, not betraying any flicker of emotion. Natasha is kind of impressed at his reticence. Some people may have taken his reserve as a warning, but not her. No, Natasha finds it evidence enough that she’s allowed to carry on, and almost laughs._

_For some reason, Natasha wants to push those boundaries. In all honesty, she doesn’t know why, or what has spurred on this sudden bout of shameless lunacy, only that her stupid mind wants to do more than just admire Steve tonight. She wants to see how deeply it's ingrained, how far they can go before that line is crossed._

_Slowly, so slowly she wonders if he senses it, she tilts her head up and leans in to place the tiniest of kisses just beneath his ear. Another caress at the top of his jaw, another lower, and then on his neck. That’s the first sign of real emotion he gives up, as his grip on her knee tightens, and his latest intake of breath hitches. But still, he doesn’t tell her to stop, or push her away. Natasha figures she can keep going._

_It’s like she stops thinking as she gathers her limbs and swings a leg over his lap, maneuvering so she’s straddling him. If she starts to think, her resolve will fail and she won’t have the nerve to keep going with whatever this is. And she really doesn’t want to stop. Whatever this is, it’s the most fun she’s had in ages._

_She still expects him to lean away, surprised at her daring, but he just stares back at her with hard eyes, almost challenging. In that moment, it’s hard for her to not feel like melting._

_The light from the TV against the darkness casts shadows in the hollows of her face, makes her hair glow, her whole body shine like porcelain. They have flickers in their gazes, flames licking their irises._

_Very slowly, agonisingly so, she puts her hands to his, where they rest at his sides, and slides them up her body to her waist. He has not yet made a comment, made even a sound, though he can't hide the slight red creeping to the tips of his ears._

_She leans in again, and carries on with her kisses on his jaw and neck, still giving him the option to push her away, but staring her intentions just as clearly. Instead, his grip on her hips tightens, and pulls them closer to his as she lets out a tiny gasp against his skin at the friction. His hands slowly wind around her waist and back, pulling her as close as physically possible and her ministrations pause for a second, just feeling their cheeks brushing and breath mingling in this compromising position neither thought would ever happen, but now that it is they can’t seem to stop. This closeness is addictive, and neither wants to be the first to let go, but both are scared of what will happen if this carries on in this particular direction._

_Her hands leave his to rest on his shoulders and she pulls back from his neck to graze their foreheads together, noses rubbing, breathing becoming slightly irregular._

_And then she kisses him, quickly but deeply. She tries to pull back to see his reaction, but finds that she can't, as his hand is behind her head, pulling her towards him. He kisses her again, hard, lips bruising as she reciprocates, after some shock. A slight whimper comes from her throat, a sound of wanting, of need, of desire. Her legs pull tighter into his sides as his hands wrap even tighter around her back and into her hair as their lips move more quickly and passionately, in unison. Soon they've shuffled so she's tipped on her back on the sofa, one leg wrapped around his back in desperation as their tongues dance. Bliss fills their heads, makes their bodies thrum, and in that moment all they're aware of is the way the other tastes and feels and sounds. It's not until-_

"Yes?" Clint breaks through the flash of memory.  
"It was..." She contemplates, trying to come up with a suitable adjective. "Passionate." She decides.  
"Oooh." He mocks, nudging her. " 'Passionate' you say."  
"And that's all you're getting."  
He groans dramatically and she laughs again, the sound bouncing off the walls.

"Then why are you running?" He just wants to know one last thing.  
Her laugh fades. "Because I ruined it all, that's why! Steve, he-" Her voice breaks slightly. "He's so angry at me, furious. He's trying to hide it but I know him, I can see."  
"Is he, though? 'Cause I'm willing to bet a whole lot of money that he's feeling the exact way you are."  
"Now is one of the few times I wish you were right."  
He squeezes her hand.

————————

From then on, things take on some sort of semblance of normalcy, albeit forced.  
People don't exactly lose interest in the mystery, but are more resigned to the fact that they'll never know, and so the prying stops, the constant search for answers comes to a close as they accept just how over that era is.

The pair in question are no longer the close confidants of the past (obviously), and are not even pretending, it seems. They don't practice together at the gym anymore, where they used to spar for hours on end, both ignoring the pleasant grazing of bare skin, nose to nose, hips to hips. It's only when they see each other in the hallways, when their eyes meet involuntarily for a second do they say only the smallest of greetings. When alone, or in the same room, they make light conversation, laughing when they don't feel like it, asking questions they don't care the answers to. 

They talk like nothing's changed despite their actions, when it has, so desperately so, and the others watch as they drift.

————————

It's not until a month later that they slip up, does the story continue. The form of writing comes when somehow they end up playing truth or dare - at Tony’s suggestion - which everyone knows is a recipe for disaster.  
Clint is drunk (anyone surprised?), his excuse being that residence at the compound is his only opportunity, as he can’t exactly get this off his head around his children. Natasha is slightly terrified of him: whoever said drunk people are harmless had never met those inebriated with a load of their secrets. One slip of the tongue…  
She didn't tell Steve she told Clint, because tell Steve what? Tell Clint what? That night didn't happen, so he doesn't need to know.

However Clint does still have the mental capacity to remember his plan. Since her confession, Clint has been concocting a little scheme, his own agenda growing in the back of his mind. He has what Natasha doesn't, which is an outsider's eyes. He has another kind of insight, that which those concerned are usually blind to, which allows him to witness the pining, the yearning. How they constantly seem like they're looking for something missing, reaching for the lost. Clint's plan is to just help them find it. 'It' being each other. 

If the decision to play wasn't hapless enough, Natasha chooses dare, at his question.  
He sits back, affecting contemplation when this is all just a heavily pondered step in the formula. 

"You can either lick my feet and then put my sock in your mouth for the next ten minutes or..." He pauses to swig, an evil grin taking over his face. "Make out with Steve for one minute."  
_Oh god no. Please no._

Eyebrows raise around the circle, and a sloppy wolf-whistle comes from Tony. Natasha in turn feels her insides go very cold, and her stomach drops through the floor.

"Uh, no. Next one." Her mouth feels dry.  
"There's no forfeit, Natalie. One or the other."  
Nervously, her face twists and her eyes flick to Steve, where the same anxiety is painting his face with a flush. "Well there's no way I'm swallowing your verrucas."  
“Wise choice, I stepped in chicken shit last week, I don’t think it all came out in the wash.”  
He winks, and Natasha takes on a pale green pallor. If she had her dagger...  
"Pucker up then." He gestures with his bottle impatiently in Steve’s direction when she doesn’t move. Inside he is jubilant. 

She shudders inside as she shuffles across the circle to Steve. "What if I get filed for sexual harassment?" Something twitches at the corners of his mouth, though he pulls it down.  
"Then ask the guy before you lay it on him!"  
She kneels up to meet him awkwardly. Why is she doing this again?  
"This okay?" His lips quirk again as she pokes her tongue over her lips surreptitiously.  
"It's okay." His hands rest on her shoulders. "It's just a game." The whisper is for her, and her only, a reminder that they're safe. This is safe territory. It's okay.

All at once her lips capture his, and... At first it's tense. All they can feel is the other's gazes on them, the scrutiny of a dozen eyes. But gradually they relax, and it gets increasingly difficult to remember they are not alone, so she can't push him back on the carpet, he can't touch her hair, they can't make any kind of pleasurable sound.

Suddenly Wanda's phone rings out, timer done. A minute early or a minute late, they can't decide. 

"Alright, alright, you can stop, you can stop!" They pull apart abruptly. "Please remember there are children present." Tony gestures what he probably thinks is covertly to Wanda, arm stretching wide.  
"I'm twenty." She does not look amused, and Rhodey bats the arm out of his face.  
"Precisely. Barely out of the toddler stage. You know what they say about the terrible twos." She rolls her eyes while Sam smirks at his two friends.  
"Talk about submitting to a craving."  
Steve manages to gather some sort of composure, replying loftily. "Excuse me?"  
Sam doesn't back down. " 'Just friends' don't kiss like that."  
"No they do not," Clint slurs in a sing-song voice.

Natasha gives him a warning glance, to which he giggles. "We merely caved to your request."  
"Whatever you say." Sam shakes his head, still smirking, and a few people exchange knowing glances. The couple at hand shrug, affecting indifference, though they avoid each other's eyes.

Soon the remaining members migrate to the roof, where Clint and Tony are implementing a more extreme version of the trust test. If Clint can fall off the roof backwards and not scream at all as he falls, trusting that Tony will catch him just before he hits the ground, FRIDAY will refer to Clint as 'Supreme lord of arrows' for an entire week. 

But as Natasha goes to join them, a hand catches at her arm and she turns quickly and slaps their arm away, agent's instincts even when she knows it's not a threat. She goes still when she sees it's Steve.

"Yes?" Something about the way they stand is wary, though without accusation the tension is hard to pin-point. Or perhaps it is accusation, blame woven through the air molecules between them, grappling for some sort of reassurance, reason, clarity. 

"I wanted-" He swallows as his arm drops to his side. "I wanted to talk."  
She sighs, arms crossing. Steve recognises it as a defensive position, perhaps unconscious. "Now is not a good time. Clint's about to kill himself-"  
"If not now then when?"

Never, Natasha wants to say. It's not that she doesn't want Steve back, she does, desperately. It's that she wants him in a different way now, and her heart tells her it's all or nothing. Talking means facing it, so never would be a good place to start. 

Instead nothing falls from her lips. 

"It just feels like we haven't. Not since-"  
"Alright." She cuts him off. That sentence doesn't need to be finished. It didn't happen, remember? 

He takes her blank face as neither assent nor dissent, and so carries on.  
"We have all this talk of everything being normal, it not mattering, but we're liars!" She flinches visibly as his voice rises.  
"I haven't talked to you in a month, I barely see you. You said this wouldn't change things and I thought that was enough. You promised!"

Colour rises to her face, rippling her flat expression as she shushes him, finger held to her lips as she glances around warily. At last she relaxes, if that's the right word. Instead of meeting his gaze, she chooses to inspect her nail closely.

"I know. It's just been...hard."  
"For me too. But I won't live in misery when you're right there! I don't see why I should. You're a metre away, but it feels much farther, like you're not even in the room. If you'd just let me reach out..."  
"Steve, what are you saying?"  
"I'm saying this last month has been torture. Unnecessary torture, and I don't wanna do it again, not if I don't have to. No more pretending." All at once he's enveloping her in a hug, and she's jolted for a second, a shock when the touch they've been starved of is suddenly in abundance. Slowly she reciprocates, hands scrunching in his shirt and her eyes close as she breathes him in, head against his shoulder. His head is in the crook of her neck, arms wrapped tightly around her back. 

Suddenly he laughs harshly. A shiver goes down her spine at the sudden warm breath that tickles her collarbone. "They were right when they said friends don't kiss like that."

She suddenly looks up at him, fists still curled in the fabric of his shirt. Her expression softens along with his, and Natasha can feel herself fading away. All indecision is wiped from her mind as it’s eased into ataraxy, contentment sweeping any form of anxiety far from reach. Out of sight, out of mind. For better or for worse. 

"Like what?" _The heart wants what the heart wants_ , she thinks sardonically.

His hands tense as they find her shoulders, and for a second she thinks he's about to pull away, but that thought, all thoughts, are effectively blown from her mind when he kisses her, for the second time that day.

"Like this." He whispers after a moment.  
Something's screaming for her to stop in the back of her head. _Don't start what you can't finish_. But she can't hear it. Her mind, their minds, are gleefully blank, empty of any tangible thought, though glances of euphoria skim the outside. 

Their bodies hum with energy, and soon they’re tripping over the coffee table in their fever. She lands on his chest as they fall into the sofa, begging gravity to pull her closer into his body. He’s kissing her so hard it might’ve hurt, if she hadn’t been reciprocating in equal ferocity. Any kind of train of thought has been effectively set on fire, carriages decimated and cargo aflame with no foreseeable hope of ever being quenched.

"I've missed you." She whispers.  
"So much." He replies, raggedly.  
Who knows how far they might’ve gone, if a sudden smashing sound hadn’t harshly perforated their bubble. They jerk, scrambling apart to see Wanda's eyes as wide as saucers and the remains of a glass at her feet. Her mouth makes every manner of shapes, and it might have been comical if not for the gravity of their actions.

"You...you-" In a flash Natasha has dashed and slammed a hand over the shocked girl's mouth, cheeks flaming and clothes rumpled, even if Wanda wasn't planning on screaming.

Natasha is shaking herself mentally, finally letting the screamed warnings in the back of her head puncture the momentary peace of mind.

Wanda promptly spits into Natasha's hand, evidently not appreciative of certain precautionary measures. Natasha recoils in disgust, hand wiping spittle on the leg of her jeans as Steve rises from the sofa, ears beetroot.

"Was that what I think it was?"  
"We didn’t- we just-"  
"It all makes so much sense now!" The pair watch helplessly as Wanda reaches the same enlightenment as Clint. "I was right - you did sleep together, didn't you? That's why you're both so embarrassed?"  
" _Please_ try and keep your voice down."  
"And just now, it was about to happen again." Wanda states matter-of-factly, folding her arms. “You lost control.” 

"Well thank god you came in."  
"I don't know, I'm kind of regretting it." Natasha glares in response. The young woman's relaxed, mocking disposition is irritating when compared with her own agitated one.

"It's just- we-" She struggles to think of the explanation Wanda is listening for, cursing Steve for remaining mum and leaving her with all the heavy lifting. "It was a mistake."  
"That you obviously don't seem to be learning from. Look, I honestly couldn't care less about your relationship status. Suck face if you want, or don't. I just don't see why it needs to be all undisclosed."  
"Please, Wanda. Please don't tell anyone."  
"Whatever. I'll keep your sordid little secret, even if I don't understand it." Wanda promptly turns on her heel and walks off, muttering as she goes. "Idiots in love."

Natasha buries her head in her hands, the scolding in her head almost physically audible. Steve walks forward and tries to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off, jerking away.

"Nat-" He begins.  
"No, Steve. Just no." She doesn't look at him as she stalks off, leaving him alone with the glass debris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter makes me cackle hehe


	6. absence makes the heart grow fonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of loss and recovery.

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder._

Steve can't help but think of this with sour acceptance, as it is undeniably true, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

Natasha has been gone for a week now, and every day he feels it. She'd up and left after that little...incident, just gone straight to Fury and practically yanked a file out of his hands, not caring who or what it was about. The next hour, she's in a tin can over the Atlantic.

After watching helplessly as she stalked out of the room, head bowed and fists clenched, he'd gone up to his room and kicked the skirting board until there wasn't any left (Tony had _not_ been pleased), and the next thing he knew she was gone. Gone like the wind. He'd tried to find her later, searched the compound top to bottom, desperate to say something, _anything_ , so they wouldn't have to go through another month of that bloody evasion, but this was a new kind of avoidance. 

He hadn't found her, evidently, and gone to bed dejected. After a restless night, intervals of dozing interpolated sporadically, he awoke much the same. It seems he can't even find her in his dreams, as where once they were saturated with her face, he finds himself stranded amongst the unknown. He dreams of flashes of blonde, but chasing it does no use. A hand on his shoulder, though the air is empty when he whirls around. A laugh and a scream are all sucked away before he can even blink. As he lies there he sometimes thinks he can feel her skin on his, hand in hand, cheek against cheek, but when he reaches out to grasp at the feeling it flits away and he is alone again, alone and lovelorn.

He knows pining isn't a great look on him - the years after Peggy were bad enough - but he can't help it. These flutters of her that dance through his dreams, his every waking moment too, are a pain in his heart, the most intense longing, that he wishes would go away. If it went away, this would all be simple, so simple. If he wasn't _in love with her_ , they would have moved on long ago, dismissed it as the mistake it would have been. She would have been here beside him still, or he beside her. And they would laugh and talk and everything would be normal, and this deep, debilitating ache would just go away. But it _won't_ go away. He is in love with her, and Steve is certain there is nothing that could change that. Things _aren't_ different, she's there and he's here. Alone.

_Be careful what you wish for._

It's in another few days that there's news, but on receival Steve realises no news at all is sometimes better than the bad.

Her tracker went dead yesterday.  
The light on the monitor just blinked out.  
Gone. In a heartbeat.

He's not stupid. This could only mean two things. Those trackers, the ones implanted into every agent before deployment, can withstand a lot. The only reason the spot on that dashboard ever, ever winks out is when their host no longer has a pulse. When they're dead.

Of course, there have been instances where agents had returned, or their bodies had been found simply without the devices, a gaping wound on their forearm, but this was very rare, as they were so hard to remove. 

People whisper in the hallways, discreet words muttered under their breaths. Theories, speculations, suspicions.

_I don't believe it._   
_There's no way she's coming back now._   
_This doesn't mean anything, she could still-_   
_Double agency is a hard thing to shake. I won’t be surprised if she’s defected again._   
_Cap must be in bits._   
_No one's invincible._   
_When's the funeral?_   
_It was only a matter of time._

Wanda was the one to tell him, a sympathetic hand on his arm as he looks around the room, confused at all the grave faces.  
"What's happened? Is there news?" He frowns.  
"Steve," She begins, pained. "Natasha, she- she blinked out." Her words need no elaboration. It happens often enough that understanding is immediate.

All at once there's a rushing sound in his ears and he stumbles, shrugging off Wanda's hand. He doesn't remember the walk up to his room, legs like lead, nor the voices calling after him as he lurches away, head spinning so fast he's not sure how he made it up to his room in one piece. The last thing he does remember is collapsing face first onto his bed, and welcoming the oncoming darkness.

When he wakes the next morning, his mind is surprisingly blank. His head no longer spins, though the edges of his vision are still fuzzy. _From unshed tears_ , he concludes.

Absentmindedly, he checks his pager on the way out, expecting blankness, perhaps save from Tony's coffee machine complaints. Instead, five words glare up at him, branding onto his lids. 

_Agent Romanoff has been recovered._

Eyes widened to saucers, he clutches the doorframe. She can't- there's no way- to be that lucky... But when he rushes to a corridor window, there really is a carrier landing on the grass below. Knuckles white on the bar, he exhales a long sigh of relief, eyes scrunched shut. _She's okay. It's okay. You're okay. It's all going to be okay._

Without another thought he runs, feeling like his feet are barely skimming the ground as he sprints towards her. All he sees is her.

However the grounds, when he arrives, are deserted. The ship is still planted firmly into the grass, but that is the only sign of life. It is otherwise barren. When he jogs over to the ship that too is empty, lights out and door firmly shut, like the mouth of a cave sealed by rocks. Confused, he hastens back to the building, and the change is immediately palpable. Inside is just as desolate. The colour in his vision is stubbornly pale, a stark companion to the lifelessness around him, which does nothing to reassure him. His skin prickles with what feels like a chill. It's like the temperature has dropped ten degrees. The air has a cold feeling, a vacant feeling, a feeling that immediately settles at the bottom of his heart. He calls out, disconcerted.

"FRIDAY, where're the others? Where's Natasha?"  
The response is immediate. " _Agent Romanoff's body has been taken to the mortuary, Captain._ "

It's then that Steve's heart stops. The tiny candle of hope he'd been nursing is immediately snuffed, the cold feeling spreading all over.

"What?" He whispers, more to himself than the AI, though she repeats herself anyway.  
" _Agent Romanoff's body has been taken to the mortuary, Captain._ "

If the knife could go deeper, that's what did it. He staggers suddenly, clutching at the pain in his heart, the pain so intense it blocks out anything else, vision going red with agony. He wants to drop to his knees and curl into a foetal position on the floor and never come out, but the screaming is inside his head, and curling into himself like a flower would only give the ringing screeches more space, the opportunity to rattle his bones and consume him. Breath comes ragged, like swallowing glass.

Something pulls him towards the lift, and he stumbles after it. He needs to see for himself. He won't believe it until it's in front of his eyes. All at once he's outside the morgue, a sterile white corridor stretching behind him. The door makes no sound as he pushes it open, revealing a wide room, again in sterile white. The only thing he sees is the long table in the centre. What is so obviously a body rests on top, shrouded by a white sheet.

It's her. There's no doubt about that.

Everything about it- _her_ \- is familiar, and yet foreign at the same time. The poke of her nose, the set in her shoulders, the calloused dancer's feet that all hide under the cloth. He's touched every part, held her close, pressed her small frame flush into his body. Everything is familiar. Except the tension. The muscles, though obviously without life, are taut. He can imagine the lines around her mouth and eyes, forehead.

The first tear falls, It traces a wet path down his cheek, closely followed by another, and another and another, until he's sobbing silently on his walk up to the table.

_Why is no one here?_ He thinks. _Why have they left her? Why is she alone?_

"Natasha..." He whispers. His hand moves to pull back the sheet from her face. He wants to caress it one last time, cup it in his hands and will his warmth to suffuse her, start her heart. He wants to kiss her forehead. One last time. He touches the fabric, fingers curling over the edge, and-

Steve jerks awake, trembling violently and gasping. Fists are clenched into balls at his sides, nails piercing the skin, leaving little crescents behind. Tears mix with the perspiration, sweat running into his eyes and down his face and he tastes salt. It takes conviction to force them open. The ceiling above is swirling, a result of the bleariness. Everything aches. There's a throbbing in his skull, in his whole body.

_Everything hurts. Everything hurts without you._

The sheets scrunch at the foot of the bed and a draught runs over him, though he's shaking with more than a chill. Slowly he sits up, groaning as his legs swing over the edge of the bed. His palms push into his eyes, strange patterns bursting on his eyelids at the pressure. He wants it out of his head, all of it. He never wants to think about Natasha dying again. Because thinking leads to believing. And believing makes it real.

His mind, however, continues the torment, night after night. Day after day she doesn't return, and day after day his petrification grows. The light on the monitor remains stubbornly dark. He can tell they're giving up. Defeat pulls their features down, and he knows that every day they're trying less and less. Soon she'll be amongst so many others, a forest of files belonging to those MIA. The assumed dead.

Steve does his best not to think about all the lasts, but he can't help it. Again, his mind does not listen and consumes his hours (both waking and sleeping) with her.

What if she doesn't come back?  
What if she really is dead? 

He can't imagine it. It is- was- unanimous in everybody's minds that Natasha Romanoff was indestructible. They had all seen her escape from the most treacherous situations, somehow crawl out of that explosion, scale that impossible cliff, survive that preposterous fall. The only thing killing the Black Widow, in everybody's minds, would be old age. It seemed unfeasible to suggest that that red-haired constant could be taken away, that those emerald cat eyes would no longer shine. Some of them didn't really believe she even slept, for god's sake.

Which was strange really, because Steve knows she has anything but a thirst to live. For her, he knew, life was just a temporary intermission in the relentless sprint of time, and she was just waiting for it to be over. He'd pulled her aside after a mission once, asked _why in hell_ she'd charged into that gun fight of four men with just a short knife, and she'd replied: "Death is coming for you even when you stand still, and I have nothing to lose."

She'd smiled and shrugged as she said it, but he saw something inside, something no one else could. The thing was, she meant it. She wasn't joking. There was a look in her eye, a look Steve had seen every day since. He wasn't stupid enough to think she was suicidal, he knew her too well for that. Suicidal, no. Self-destructive, yes. He knew she'd keep breathing as long as possible, but that was more mulish obstinacy than anything. 

Steve liked to think he knew Natasha the way no one else did. Not just the teasing, cynical-but-smiling Natasha who could also kill you with her pinky finger and would probably laugh while doing it, but the introverted, thoughtful, compassionate, wistful Natasha who ate too much pizza and had a worrying obsession with science fiction (honestly - they'd watched 'The Empire Strikes Back' together and he'd only found out at the credits that the reason she was muttering the whole way through was because she'd practically memorised the script). The one who could beat anyone and everyone at Mario Kart, but also had a visceral hatred for Disney movies and handcuffs attached to her bedpost.

He knew she knew him too, how he really thought the greatest invention since the war was Chinese takeaway, and how his birthday wasn't actually July 4th (propaganda is the only explanation needed) but June 13th, and how he has a real thing for 'Grey's Anatomy'.

But then, as always, his contented trip down memory lane is corrupted at once by more fear, and the half-smile drops.

What if the last thing you did was kiss her, and say her name?  
What if you never see her again?  
What if she died hating you?

The last thing he did was kiss her...

_It's not until his hands slide under her shirt that Natasha feels a shock go through her. They're really doing this. It's really happening. He really does want_ her. _What started out as mischief has very quickly escalated into a torrent of pent up lust and emotion. Instead of fizzling out, the sparks have set them aflame. Their bodies are the writhing flames of passion, souls desperately sprinting through a forest alive with fire to join at the centre of the inferno in a blinding supernova, one that will rip their world apart, but in the best way possible. Natasha wouldn’t be surprised if there are scorch marks on the cushions._

_His hands slip under her shirt hungrily, exploring every plane of her stomach, gliding over her shoulders roughly, and when his thumbs stroke the lace of her bra she feels all breath leave her._

_Suddenly he pulls away, albeit reluctantly, and she chases his retreating lips. "Natasha..." He whispers, as though he's struggling, and a shudder goes through her._   
_"Steve," She replies. His eyes search hers, but they betray not one ounce of uncertainty. No fear, or apprehension, just complete certainty, just anticipation and desire and conviction._   
_His hands retreat from her stomach to cup her face, and she feels the loss immediately, but the way he tucks tresses behind her ear is so tender she thinks she might melt. “Nat- What are we doing?”_   
_“Whatever we want.” She smiles softly, and Steve feels his stomach swirl with vertigo._   
_"Are you- Do we- Do you really want this?"_   
_"Do you?" She quirks an eyebrow, but the first dash of doubt streaks over her features. This assault wasn’t supposed to go this far, and he’s welcome to stop. But this is the stuff of dreams, heaven and angels, and Natasha doesn’t want to wake up._   
_"I don't want to force you into anything." He's having a hard time keeping his eyes away from her lips._

_"Neither of us are drunk so you're not taking advantage, and I kissed you first. This is all I want."  
"Are you sure you're not drunk?" A smile quirks his lips at her sudden impulsivity, sudden desires, though neither have touched a drop of liquor this evening. His eyes burn with a fire she's not seen before, and if she's honest, it scares her a little. Everything they're about to do scares her. No one's wanted her this way, this much, not like Steve does. She's never been this close to him before. Never so close to rub noses, card her hands in his hair, feel his abs press into her stomach.   
It is scary._

_" 'That you saying you don't want to kiss me Rogers?" She smirks playfully.  
"Oh Natasha." His face moves minimally closer, nose rubbing hers, and something in her breath hitches. "You misunderstand me. That's all I want to do." Something starts thrumming deep inside Natasha, a smaller fire, a ball of heat, but he still doesn't connect their lips, instead choosing to hover a millimetre above. His breath, the beating of her heart against his, makes it hard to form any clear train of thought. "This isn't a game, is it?" He searches her face. "This isn't just physical attraction? Tell me this is real."_

_"Yes." One of her hands finds his and she links them, bringing it to press against both their cheeks. "This is real. This isn't a game."  
"You know what this means, Nat. Tell me you're sure." He persists.  
"God Rogers, what do I have to say to get you to sleep with me?" They share the air, breathing shallow as they let the reality of their closeness sink in for a second.  
"Sleep?" He husks. She kisses him in response, and he needs no encouragement to reciprocate.  
"I guess that's that answered then." He murmurs, and she laughs against his lips._

\-----------------

Sometimes Steve is filled with such intense fear he almost has a panic attack. _What if you never see her again?_ It takes everything, trying to remember how he speaks to her when her episodes descend and reflecting the advice back on himself. _What if she's dead?_ He can't stand it.

\-----------------

It's another week before Steve's nightmares come to fruition, or at least in part.

He wakes up, same as always, dejected as always. Washes, dresses, as always. Checks his pager. That's when the déja vu sets in, seeing those words.

_Agent Romanoff has been recovered._

Again, a sword of both elation and terror strikes at his heart. He realises, looking back. This is the exact same day, exact same dream. Even the same shirt clings to his torso. He pinches himself, but there's no waking up from reality. At the back of his mind he begins to pray, desperately begging the gods not to make his nightmare into a reality. Now would be a really shitty time to start predicting the future.

Once again, his feet pound the stairs on the way down, but when he runs out into the sunshine, it feels like real sunshine. Real warmth. This time, the grounds aren't deserted, aren't desolate. The carrier is still comfortable in the grass, but the hatch is open and the engine is humming. The entrance is buzzing with people. Pilots, STRIKE team members, Tony, Bruce, Thor, Sam, Wanda. And the best part is, the atmosphere is light. Jubilant, even. There are no grave faces, shoulders don't sag under the weight of more loss, but loose with relief. _She's alive_. The thought flashes across his mind, and he grabs it with both hands, letting it warm him to the bone. _She's okay_. The elation of earlier blooms inside his chest and he finds Tony, hoping he'll know where she is. All he wants is to see her, touch her.

"Hey." He taps Tony's shoulder, who promptly spins to face him. "I got the page. Where is she?"  
Tony frowns. "I don't know. We tried to see her as she came out, but there were too many people and she was carted off so quickly."  
"She's hurt?"  
Tony smiles sympathetically. "I don't know. I'm sure she's fine, though." Steve bites his lip. "Why don't you check the infirmary?"  
"Thanks."

And that he does, jogging back inside and catching the lift, heart doing jumping jacks the whole ride.

It's her. He sees through the glass as soon as the doors open, heart in his mouth. Her back is to him, and it appears she's changed into clean scrubs. Helen is at her side, prodding at somewhere on her abdomen. They talk in low voices; he can see their lips moving.

He stops a few steps from the doorway. She is all he wants, all he's ever wanted, and now that she's here, he's scared. He wants to lunge in there and gather her up against him, hold her to the end of time. He wants to kiss every inch of her body, kiss away every bruise and scar and any kind of pain they might have put her through.  
The hugging part he does.

Her head turns suddenly and Helen pauses her prodding to look up at their guest.

"Steve...?" Her face is unreadable, a mixture of relief and anxiety. All that is wiped though as he crosses the room in three strides to envelop her in a crushing hug. At first she tenses, but when he doesn't let go she reciprocates as hard as she can while sitting on the bed. Her arms wrap around his neck and her eyes close to breathe him in. He smells like home.

Steve's palms splay across her back, wanting to pull her to him as close as physically possible. His cheek rests on her hair and he kisses her crown once. The hug loosens mutually and his hands move to cup her face.

"You're alive. Oh my god you're alive. When they said- I thought-" He breaks off, emotion making his voice thick.

Her eyes are still wide as she looks up at him, and lifts a hand to fold with his own against her cheek.

"I'm okay, Steve. I'm alive. It's okay."  
"Did they hurt you? Are you hurt? What happened? If they hurt you-"  
She puts a finger to his lips, effectively quieting him. "Dr. Cho here was just stitching me up."  
Helen, who had been watching this whole performance with interest, leans forward again. "That's right. If you would kindly disentangle from my patient..." She raises an eyebrow expectantly, and he lets Natasha lean back again, though their eye contact does not break. "If you want to stay, pull up a stool."

Steve complies, sitting at her right side and taking her hand. "You have a lot of explaining to do." He shakes his head.  
"I don't know, it's kind of a long story." The ghost of a half-smile creases her mouth.  
"Natasha I swear to god-"  
"I'm joking, Steve." His grip relaxes. "I'm okay. You got that?" She reassures again, and he nods, brows unknitting. She winces suddenly, pain twisting the smile into a grimace.  
Immediately the frown is back and he looks to Helen.

"What's wrong with her?"  
"The tracker was removed from here," Helen points to the long, gaping gash running down Natasha's left forearm. "and she was stabbed once between the fourth and fifth intercostal spaces." She gestures again to a bandaged wound between Natasha's ribs.  
"Stabbed? That's a bit dramatic." Natasha raises her eyebrows.  
"Just telling it how it is."  
Natasha promptly rolls her eyes, turning back to a worried Steve. "It's nothing. A knife _very shallowly_ punctured the skin. A surface wound." She carries on over Helen's tutting.  
"It nearly ruptured her lung."   
"The _real_ problem is the glass shard I didn't clean out. It's infected, but after a course of antibiotics I should be fine. And I still have all my teeth, so that's a plus."   
She explains at his questioning look. "Fell through a window."

He shakes his head in exasperation, finally letting out a tiny chuckle at her frankness, though it fades when she grimaces again, this time letting out a grunt when deft hands begin to rinse the forearm-wound with saline.  
He stands up. "Can't you give her something? Why isn't she on morphine?"  
She squeezes his hand wanly, and for the first time he sees the exhaustion in her expression. The scrubs she wears may be clean, but that's about it. Her hair is tangled and messy, strands sticking out at all angles. A layer of grime covers her completely, as if an extra skin has grown over the top. Mud and blood are caked in her fingernails, stain her skin. Fatigue fills the bags under her eyes, her drawn, hollow cheeks and slack muscles. Steve still thinks it might be the most beautiful she's ever looked. 

He sits, at her eyes' request.  
"You know this, our serums heighten our metabolism too much to feel proper effects. Morphine would take fifteen minutes to come into effect, but by that time I’ve broken most of it down. There would only be faint results for ten minutes at the most. It’d be a waste.”  
He huffs in annoyance and looks away. "I just hate seeing you in pain."  
Her face softens, her heart feels light. "It's fine, Steve. Everything has a price, and this is by far not the worst I've paid."

Natasha is grateful to Steve. So incredibly grateful. Since he got here things have been easy, smooth, like always. She yearned to see him again, and yet was frightened when it came to it, but at once she was put at ease. He hugged her and everything went away. The fear was placed by relief. At the moment, neither have the energy to care about their petty avoidance strategies, nor what caused it. Right now, all they want is each other. Simply to be next to them and hold their hand and look into their eyes, and talk and laugh and hold each other. Just like they used to. For the first time in two months, Natasha has hope. Hope that all is not lost. There really is a coming back from this. 

He rests his elbows on the edge of the bed, holding her knuckles to his lips as Helen begins removing debris from the long laceration with tweezers, eliciting another cringe.  
"Natasha, you- You don't understand what it felt like. When you blinked out, I couldn't-" He stammers. "I couldn't _breathe_."  
Something hurts deep in Natasha's heart. She hurt him. By hurting herself, she hurt him.  
"They thought you were dead, and I started to believe it, and the pain-" He sucks in a breath. "I thought I'd never see you again, and it was the worst I've ever felt." He takes a breath. "I need you, Nat."  
"I'm here now," She says helplessly. She feels speechless. What else can she say? He's laying himself bare for her, and not asking for anything in return. He's not saying _it_ outright, and seems too distracted to be thinking about _that_. And for that she is even more grateful.

"Just don't- don't do that again."  
Helen keeps her eyes glued to the wound. She knows this isn't her business.   
"I hesitate to remind you that it was not voluntary.” He rolls his eyes and she cracks a proper smile. ”I can never leave you, Steve. You know that. Never truly. Never forever."  
"And I'll never leave you. Not as long as I live. No matter what happens, what we do," She lowers her eyes, both knowing what he's referencing. "I'm never leaving you." He knows she knows what he's really saying.  
"Thank you." She's hoping he can hear what her eyes are saying, the deep gratitude she feels.

He loves her, that's why he's doing this. Letting her do this. He knows she loves him too, and that's why she's doing it in the first place. He's letting her because you don't force the people you love, you don't torment them with your own desires. You want them to be happy in any way possible, and if this is what gives her a little peace back, of course he'll comply. Just having her by his side is enough. He'll readily admit he wants more, but it's more than she can give. He knows that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time I wrote this I genuinely thought about killing Natasha for real, but that would have been stupid, and there's plenty of time for grief later.  
> And yes, I changed Steve's birthday. Deal with it ;)


	7. clear skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of food fights and fun. And weird metaphors, to be honest (see: lakes and lamps).

It's like she can breathe again.

It's like the clouds have receded, the rain has stopped pouring, and the only thing filling her lungs is fresh air. Like she had tripped into an icy lake and been plunged deep, watching the light fade above. She had begun to adapt to these harsh new surroundings, gills growing, but every second was agonisingly painful, like the part in the deepest depths of her soul was being carved out with a knife, breaths restricted and painful. Until she saw him too, at the other end of the lake, and they swam and touched palms with astonishment that they were not alone, and held each other until the warmth of human touch pushed out the chill they had begun to accept as part of their bones and rose above the surface, feeling the sun on their backs at last.

Natasha feels as if Atlas has passed the weight of the sky to her these last few weeks, and feeling free of the manacles of shame is the happiest she thinks she'll ever be.  
Things are back to normal with Steve. Or as normal as can be. Their wordless agreement on her return seems to have rebuilt a bridge both thought was burned for good, a tacenda resting over them lightly. The dyad between them is restored, thoughts and feelings translated in glances and quirks of the lip and received in retrouvaille. They're not as physically close as before, Natasha notices. But of course, that's just them getting used to each other again, getting used to the new boundaries in their skinship. 

_It's hard to touch you and not...not want you._

She still catches him looking at her sometimes, eyes ambivalent in their pull and push, longing and hesitancy. It irritates her when he stares, not least because she knows he can't help it, but because neither can she. But it's going back on something he promised - though nonverbally - to abandon, and he keeps unintentionally nursing it back to life. When he stares it makes her stare, and she feels that stamped-down infatuation beginning to rise from the ashes. When she does feel it she often twitches suddenly, blinking hard and shuddering to shake off the feeling. He often does the same when her eyes look up, accusing, and he feels like she’s caught him red-handed stuffing a body under a mattress or something. Natasha knows he’s trying, but sometimes it feels like effort is few and far between on his part. That’s what irritates her.

_Sometimes I touch you and I need you, and I always wish you'd stay a little longer before letting go._

Otherwise, discord is nonexistent. The rhythm between them is easy, steps no longer out of time. Conversation is natural and invited rather than avoided and feared. And Natasha is glad of it. Frankly, she’s not entirely sure what she’d do without Steve, because her ‘surface wound’ is still bandaged and debilitating, and there’s no way she’s bending to Helen’s will and actually using that crutch. Steve is her human crutch, when needed. Tony would not be happy if she were simply grabbing onto the walls for balance.  
The desire is no longer all-consuming, the intrinsic craving to simply love him and be loved no longer eats her up from the inside out. It’s dim; light shining through a heavy lampshade. Frankly, they’re just so relieved to have things back to normal that both will freely admit to the love left behind. Strictly platonic, of course. But it’s a love that means more than the world, and they’re not letting go of that any time soon.

_I wish you would stay, but this is a pining I know can't be satisfied. For you are there and I am here. Be we miles or centimetres apart, I will always wish you would stay._

————

Centimetres apart indeed. To Peter’s adoration, Natasha and Steve are relaxed beside the coffee table, atop which is their current project, a Lego Millennium Falcon. He had stopped in his tracks on the way out from his visit, all of a sudden practically vibrating with excitement. He’d already done one before of course, but the prospect of finding fellow fanatics amongst his second family was just too good to be true. Steve wouldn’t call himself a Star Wars obsessive, but Natasha certainly was, and she was the biggest geek he knew. Peter practically had to be dragged home to dinner, seeing as they’d practically latched on to each other and almost swerved into another tongue, all weird names and squealing. The others looked rather alarmed. No one has ever made Natasha squeal.

He’d stood there, a man out of time, but for once not minding his ignorance. He was just proud to say he actually knew what the Millennium Falcon was. But the best part was her. Peter had been there in a flash with tentative questions, and she’d feigned indignation when he’d asked if she, Natasha, _liked_ Star Wars. It was like that Spiderman meme (wait, is that a meme? Or does a meme move?) come to life. Her eyes immediately lit up and joy flushed her cheeks pink while Peter talked, avidly waiting for her replies. Steve could see she couldn’t believe it. Peter actually wanted to talk to _her_. He wanted to know _her_ opinion. The mother in her, that tiny part of her soul she thought she’d never use, came to life there and then, and Steve knew that from this moment on there wasn’t a thing Natasha wouldn’t do for Peter Parker.

He gazed in reverence at the animation. She looked beautiful. He’s allowed to think that, right? It’s true. She looked beautiful. She always does.

_The way I feel won't go away, but I love you too completely to care that you say you don't._

Peter finally leaves, but the happiness doesn’t, still buzzing as they sit back down on the carpet to finish what they started, amongst the Lego bricks and that apple she never finished eating. Eventually, dinner arrives. Natasha has said that breakfast is her favourite time of the day, the time where everybody is together, usually without fail, but that place may be being replaced very shortly with the evening meal. Fair enough, the times everyone is together at this time in the evening is inconsistent, but when they are conversation flows like a river of affinity and merriment is rife. All stress and previous aggravation is relieved for a few blissful hours and you could almost forget the reality of their worldly status. Soon the air is filled with laughter and the telling smell of takeaway, Chinese, or shawarma, perhaps. Only Natasha truly knows just how good of a chef Steve really is (he grew up with rationing, he could probably rustle up a three course meal from an old sock and stale bread, for god’s sake), but he is happy to leave his culinary prowess on the backburner in exchange for the probably more ubiquitously delectable (see: fattening) of meals, preferring them himself, to be honest.

Only when Natasha feels safe does she let herself laugh, well laugh properly. Only in secure company. And now is one of those times. Hunched over and clutching her stomach she laughs, loudly and without reticence, wheezing as tears of mirth bead in her eyes. It’s a rarer sight, but a welcome one. Steve chuckles beside her and she grips his arm. Sam’s there too, probably the reason to be honest, but he’s separate, as if outside a bubble. All anyone can see is Steve and Nat, glowing as a star at one end of the table. 

The restoration has not gone unnoticed by the others, obviously, Wanda and Clint looking on in especial interest. They can only whisper behind the subjects’ backs though, as the amount of tricks they’d have to pull to squeeze any kind of answer out of Natasha in a direct confrontation would be just too much effort, especially for something that would probably end in castration anyway.

“Rogers and Romanoff refurbished, new and shiny. I don’t understand it.” Tony begins.  
“Complete with knowing glances and actual laughter, I know.” Rhodey continues.  
“All I see is blurry lines. What happened? How come they’re suddenly wearing friendship bracelets again?”  
Clint, two seats down, overhears their muttering and begins to smirk, and Tony narrows his eyes.  
“If only Katniss knew the lengths I’d go to make him tell me.”  
Clint’s grin doesn’t even waver, in fact he leans further back in his seat, grinning as the last of the golden beer slips down his throat. “Shit happened.” He eventually discloses. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s over yet. Shit’s happening. But they’re getting through it.”  
“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” If anything, Clint’s riddles have blurred things even more.

Hysterics over, Natasha is happy to recline in her seat and observe, shovelling food into her mouth quickly, and yet still with a refined grace. Steve still wonders how her petite frame can hide that much lemon chicken. When all food in the immediate vicinity is gone, she proceeds to steal off Steve’s plate, promptly popping prawns into her mouth with disarming sleight of hand. Sam decides to take a leaf from that particular book and nab some chow mein off Bucky’s plate, who is of course not having any of that, immediately knocking a polystyrene cup full of sweet-and-sour sauce into Sam’s lap, who swears.  
Sam retaliates with a splatter of curry to the face, and soon that end of the table has descended into absolute chaos.

“Remind me again why they’re allowed to sit next to each other,” Steve says wearily.  
“No fucking clue,” Natasha replies.

The squabbling gradually makes its way down the table, more people dragged into the bickering as various fried vegetables and sauces fly like missiles overhead. Natasha and Steve try to ignore it, for the most part, raising their voices slightly above the racket. That is, until one of Clint’s flying chicken balls, aimed at Tony, nails her on the side of the head. The whole room is suddenly silent in some kind of fear, Clint sliding down in his seat slowly. Steve watches warily, ready to jump between them. More bloodstains is the last thing these floorboards need. Face blank, she picks up the knife to the side of her plate and cleans it slowly with her napkin, before squeaking her chair out and walking to stand behind a terrified Clint’s chair, expression still blank as her knife glints next to her. Then all at once she leans forward and tips both Tony and Rhodey’s glasses over his head. Laughter breaks out at once as Clint splutters and chokes, wiping whatever kind of alcohol that is from his eyes while Natasha grins behind him, sashaying back to her seat. Steve can’t help but surreptitiously tip his plate of noodles into her lap as she sits again, and she turns to him in mock horror as he grins.  
“Steven! I would have thought you’d learned.” She throws his drink in his face, unable to hide her smirk. Then the whole table is at war, food soaring left and right.

They stumble through the corridors afterwards, still chuckling from the mischief. Everything was going so well until that point.

Natasha was proud of herself. A whole day, a whole day in his company, and not one thought about kissing Steve crossed her mind, not even for a second. She nearly made it yesterday, so nearly, and then he looked at her like he does, for just a second too long and it skipped through before she could close the door goodnight. But not once today has she imagined his arms around her, his lips against hers, eyes so close she can see herself reflected in blue, like parallel planets. Not once. Things are changing, she can feel it, or at least she hopes that’s what it is. The friends lens is being slotted back in, slowly but surely, and it’s changing back. Things are returning to normal, or ‘before’ at least. She’s coaxing herself over the bridge. _The grass is greener there_ , she hears that voice. _Isn’t that what you want?_ The resistance in that part of her that always wants him is down, shut down stations on stand by, decreasingly reluctant to follow where her mind pulls them. But her head always was stronger than her heart. 

It’s not like that for Steve; Natasha was right when she thought he wasn’t making any effort. Everyday he falls a little more, in jolts, like falling down the stairs, but he thinks he’s getting better at hiding it. Thinks. Until they pause outside her door. She looks up to meet his eyes and there’s something in them, something that swallows her whole. He holds it for a second too long that she feels the spiral opening beneath her, and tries desperately to pass it off. He looks like...like he’s going to do something, and Natasha doesn’t think she’ll be able to stop him if he does.

“What? Is there something on my face?” A corner of her mouth quirks up but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s still trying to figure him out.  
A quiet chuckle escapes him. Of course, there’s noodles on her shoulder and sauce on her face. More than just ’something’.  
“No.” He murmurs. His hand suddenly reaches up to run a thumb across her lip, wiping away a a stripe of sauce. “Nothing.” He wouldn’t blame her for slapping him, honestly; this is too much, too fast. But she doesn’t. In fact, if he’s not fabricating, she almost leans into his touch. He continues sliding his thumb over her bottom lip for what feels like an age, and Natasha feels every one of them, senses suddenly amplified. 

And she’d so nearly busted her record. All that effort, down the drain. When they touch it’s like an electric shock and she wants to jerk away, but doesn’t, instead choosing to meet the burn of his gaze and instantly regretting it when that part of her suddenly springs into life, tugging and tugging in a way that rockets her back to the not-so distant past.

_He suddenly shifts his weight and scoops her unceremoniously from the couch, her legs wrapping around his hips lustily as he stumbles towards the bedroom. He sets her down carefully on the covers as if scared to crease them, climbing on to cage her again after a second, sliding up her body in utter reverence, and she shivers at the feeling of him gliding over her.  
His hand goes to take her shirt over her head and she lets him eagerly, after the tiniest moment of hesitation glances through. A spiderweb of scars decorates her body, paling lines from knives and guns like cracks in a mirror. Some of them she thought she didn’t want anyone seeing, but she feels totally assured in this second that they make no difference. Steve will not want her any less because of them, in fact he's told her on numerous occasions that without them he couldn’t love her (he hadn’t meant it like this at the time though) as much as he does. So she lets him, wriggling out willingly and arching her back into him. A sound of wonder comes from his mouth, pupils dilating visibly. She can feel herself curling in, shoulders hunching and cheeks colouring in embarrassment and the weight of his gaze, at the span of his attention to every inch of skin. He kisses her softly again before moving to her jaw and neck, a shudder of pleasure running down her spine. Delicately, fingers brush the hair from her ear.  
"God, I love you so much," He whispers against her ear, before returning to her neck.  
"I love you too," She whimpers a second later, fingers finding the hem of his top and pulling over head._

_They carry on like that, relaxing into the rhythm of pleasure, becoming drunk on the heady embrace of redamancy. Each breath is shared, every touch a searing reminder. They become undone that night, careful stitches unpicked as they lie trembling in each other’s arms, trembling with love, and desire._

_Steve ensures he makes love to every part of her that night. It’s like with every caress he forces her to listen to what he’s screaming so loud._ I love you. I never want to let you go. I never want this night to end, I never want to face the day. I love you. _She does her very best to show him she can hear him and makes sure he knows she needs him, and there’ll never be a time when she doesn’t._

The memory is gone in a flash, though a rising blush threatens an encore. Well, maybe one person had made her squeal. Natasha forces down the sordid thought, hoping desperately that Wanda isn’t doing some bloody daily mind-reading rounds.  
Thrown back to the present she blinks and steps backwards, letting his hand drop to his side. Almost hastily, she opens the door, slipping behind in a second.

“Goodnight, Steve.” His face is inscrutable as it closes slowly and she leans against the other side, breathing deeply.

_I love you. Ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that Star Wars is a running theme. I am convinced that most people at the compound/tower are absolute nerds, especially Nat.
> 
> It's my birthday tomorrow hehe, let's hope death doesn't break my streak this year :)


	8. heart of the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of lies and truths.

Steve stands on the other side of the door just closed, thoughts spinning in his head. He can't breathe. There's something lodged in his throat, something that makes him want to choke, or vomit, something that's slowly suffocating him. He tentatively touches the wood in front of him and rests his hand there, feeling the texture, the rises and runs under his fingertips. She's behind it. She's there, just a few metres away, perhaps less. So close. The lump becomes thicker and his heartbeat faster, snapshots flashing before his eyes. She's there, smiling and laughing and smirking and biting her lip, hugging him and holding him and consoling when the nights are too dark, and the day seems too far away. He's seen all they have, but now he's seeing all they could have. He feels her kiss and her whisper, her breath on his skin, her heart beating against his. And it doesn't go away. Nothing can suppress the intense pull of longing he feels at their distance, not only in metres, but in minds. After all her efforts to make him a home in the present day, all her lessons on moving on with the times, adapting to new climates, _she_ is the one intent to stay rooted to a time long since written. _She_ is the one refusing to follow the flow, acclimatise to their new surroundings, feelings. Natasha, for all her talk, detests change, even when it might be for the best. 

He realises they've outgrown their friendship, surpassed the time it lived in. The mould is shattered, with a blinding star at the centre of the debris. A star should be free to roam the forests of suns and planets, sail the seas and ride the waves of the sky, spin into a visceral supernova over the universe. Not detained against its will, forced into that incarcerated half life, or its glow will be dulled until there's nothing left. Nothing deserves a fate such as that. Steve is suddenly determined their star should not die.

Without her he too lives a half life. He feels hollow on the inside, and realises that before their eyes were forced open, he was satisfied. This hunger hadn't existed before, but now it haunts him day and night, a raving beast eating his heart out.

Without her it feels like his heart doesn't beat. All he feels is the absence pressing onto his chest.  
The worst part is it's not necessary. None of this is necessary. They may have settled the conflict between them, soothed the burns left by such abrasion, but it's all still there, aching beneath the surface. Surely the best thing to do would be to fix it once and for all, stop the chafing between skin and just accept the pleasure and serenity that comes from peace. It's all right there. Right there for the taking. Why can't they take it? 

_Who knew being in love was so painful_ , he thinks.

——————-

Three minutes later, the last thing Natasha is expecting is a knock at the door. She's been pacing her apartment in the gap between, muttering impatiently and desperately trying to knock him out of her head, fingers scrunched against her temples, to no avail.

Just when the slideshow is beginning to calm down, there it goes, _rap rap rap_. The person on the other side does not help her cause. Her eyes widen as she takes in Steve, his form nearly completely filling the doorway.

"Can I- can I come in?" He asks, and some kind of assent escapes her mouth, against her will as he strides past her. His voice sounds restricted, almost raspy. The fear comes over her again. He's agitated, she can see that. His eyes are bright, fists clenching and un-clenching at his sides, nails biting into his palms, a sort of flush colouring his ears.

"What is it?" She walks hesitantly forwards after shutting the door with disguised reluctance. He turns to face her. It's like he's vibrating on the spot.  
"I've been thinking a lot." He begins, but doesn't elaborate.  
"About...?" She says softly, heart beginning to hammer in her chest.  
"Lying," He continues after a pause.  
"Steve what are you-"  
"Don't." He cuts her off and she folds her arms over her chest in what is obviously a defensive gesture. "Don't say anything. Not yet. Just listen."  
"Depends on what you want to say." Her lips purse. His eyes flicker to hers in that second, blue on green, and he carries on, despite her passive protestations.  
"I want to stop lying. Every day feels false, like I'm deceiving everyone I care about. Including you. I'm done acting like everything's okay when it's not, I'm done pretending."  
"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?" She tries for carelessness. Like anything will stop the tide at this point. The oncoming storm is here.  
"Don't pretend you don't. Please don't pretend."  
"Go on then. Enlighten me." She holds his gaze, challenging. Daring him to say it aloud.  
He takes a deep breath. "You're lying." Something in her takes sadistic satisfaction from that. He still can't say it. Neither of them can.  
"Excuse me?"  
"You're a liar. We both are."

A few seconds of silence stretches between them. Natasha can't speak. She feels like there's a ticking bomb inside her chest, and if she moves, breathes, speaks, something will go off and she doesn't know what will happen.

Steve is at a loss how to carry on. He'd charged into this situation headfirst, head still spinning, and now he doesn't know how to get out. He's happy to keep on digging if it will finally get them to the point, but he needs her help to find it, and without that he'll be buried alive.

"I think it's best if you leave."  
"I didn't mean- You said you would listen."  
"And now I don't want to. Why should I have to, if all you're going to do is insult me?"

When Natasha turns to walk towards the door, intending to usher him into the harsh corridor light, there's a small part of her that hopes and wishes he wouldn't leave. Wishes that she had the guts to accept what he will inevitably offer her, that he would stop at the door, pull her around and hug her. Whisper in her ear what he wants to say, as if that will make it any less real.

She's barely taken two steps forward, barely even started to reach for the handle when her heart nearly stops - a pair of strong arms are wrapped around her, hugging her from behind, immediately stilling her movement. His head is next to hers, and she hears his voice vibrate in the air in front of them, sending tremors down her spine.  
" _Natasha_ ,"  
She closes her eyes, allows her other senses to take over. She can feel his chest rising to meet her back, his arms around her torso, skin brushing. His breath is in her ear, and all she can hear is the hum of electricity.

"Just listen to me," Steve continues, slightly tightening his grip even though she isn't fighting back. "Would it be so bad if you just listened for one second?"  
Natasha breaks his hold around her and steps away, shaking her head as his arms fall to his sides. "Please don't, Steve."  
"I-"  
" _Please don't_." She's begging him, and if it was anything else a single word would be enough, but he has to. _They_ have to.

"I _love_ you." 

There's suddenly silence. It's out. It hangs in the air, a bird on a wire, a worm on a hook, and he wishes she would reach out and take it with both hands, but if anything, she looks more defeated. Her head lifts to meet his, and he could swear her eyes are almost glistening with tears. She starts to shake her head, slowly at first, but gains more vehemence.

"No, you can't, I won't- I won't let you, you-"  
"It's not a question of letting." He says, almost wearily.  
She runs a hand through her hair. "You're confusing yourself."  
"I need you. I don't know when the way we are changed, it certainly wasn't recently...I don't care. All I know is I love you, and I'm never going to stop."

She worries over her lip, breathing shallow. Every hair stands on end, every nerve thrums with static, every muscle taut with tension. Her eyes flicker everywhere but his face, scared that if she sees the way he's looking at her, the longing, the adoration, she'll crumble. And she can't crumble.

"But I'm me." She spits, and he cocks his head, questioning. "I'm a terrible, terrible person, I've killed people, and enjoyed it, and- and-"  
"I love you because of it all, not despite it! I love your strength and your intelligence, your spirit and bravery. Don't you see?"

"You don't want this, Steve."  
"Stop putting words in my mouth!" He raises his voice slightly in frustration, and she jumps.  
"We can't."

He closes his eyes for a second, tries to reign in his thoughts. "Why? Please, just tell me why. We can do this, we can work, just tell me why you won't allow me to love you."  
"Steve-"  
"Why? I'm in love with you, and you are with me, or so you said. Why is that so terrible?" His voice is softer now, entreating, pleading her to see herself the way he does.

"I don't want to lose you. I can't. I won't." Her voice sounds so broken, so tired, that his heart hurts. She tries to measure her breathing, master the overflowing emotions.  
"Natasha..."  
She ignores him. "We work as friends, but if I let you, let _myself_ have you and then I lost you..." It doesn't bear thinking about. "We work as friends. We should stay like that." A solitary tear traces over her cheekbone.  
"Open your eyes, Natasha! That world doesn't exist anymore. If it did, I wouldn't be standing here. If it did, I wouldn't wake up every morning longing to feel you beside me. I wouldn't dream of you, think of you like I do. The past is gone. But the present is just waiting for us to wake up and run with it." He pauses to breathe, chest moving rapidly.  
"Run with me, Natasha."

Steve steps forward, starts to move closer and closer, but Natasha moves backward in the same motion - as if scared.  
Her back is against the closed door now. Steve presses against her, cupping her face in his hands, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones. At first, she freezes at his touch, but as she sees the way he's looking at her, the desire, the reverence, she finds herself melting into him.

She scans his face, finding herself wanting to pinch herself. This feels like a dream. Is this a dream? She squeezes her eyes tight shut, and opens them again, only to see him still standing right in front of her. His mouth quirks slightly, knowing exactly what she's checking for.

"If you knew," he breathes, beaming, "how much I love you."  
And suddenly he's kissing her, and Natasha feels herself crumble at once. His lips graze hers lightly, lingering, as if just waiting for her to protest, to push him away. The thought is still there, she's still hesitant, but it's fading every second.

"Steve-" She exhales. As if his name on her lips was the last thing he was waiting for, he finally kisses her properly, carefully and delicately, just long enough for her to feel the desire roving, barely restrained, beneath the surface. And then he pulls away.

She opens her eyes, head feeling slightly foggy, to look him straight in the eye. His eyes too are misty, like waking up in the morning, surfacing from underwater. A hint of pink rises to the tips of his ears as he swallows, eyes flickering between her eyes and mouth.

Whatever compels her to do it, Natasha suddenly pulls him back in, hands either side of his face as she meets his lips halfway. It's slow, as if tasting each other for the first time. Slow in comparison to their thumping hearts, loud in their ears. His hands drift down to her waist before winding around her back desperately, gathering all of her flush against him. Natasha knows in that moment that despite all her fulminations, this is where she belongs. Right here, in Steve's embrace. They say home is where the heart is, and she knows she's finally found hers.

She lets out a soft sigh as they pull apart, resting their foreheads against each other. They see a mirror as they look close into their partner's expression. Peace, and pleasure and an innate respect, partnered with veneration. And most of all, love. So passionate it seems so swallow them whole.

Natasha can find nothing, in the nooks and crannies of her mind, to stop her. She has nothing else to punish herself with, and any more protesting would be a lie, which they've promised not to do anymore. She wants this. She wants him. More than she's ever wanted anything, and as he looks at her, his breath on her cheeks, eyes sending tremors into her soul, she lets her heart take over, lets it fill her body with bliss.

"Do you want me to stop?" He's suddenly serious, making sure. His thumbs stroke small circles on her hips, and it's an effort to throw herself back to reality and suppress a hum of pleasure, force herself to understand whatever combination of words he just murmured. "I want you to know that I want you more than anything, even more than I did that night, and I want to show you that. But if you don’t want me to-” He swallows. "Just say the word.”

Natasha is suddenly filled with overwhelming emotion for the man in front of her, tears nearly rising to her eyes again and her heart flutters. She's never had that before, someone care how she feels, what she wants to do. Never has she had someone respect her so much as to ask. He doesn't know how much that question means to her, but it's enough for any remaining doubt to be effectively wiped from her mind, utter conviction seeping into the gaps.

_This is what it feels like_ , she thinks, in wonder. _This is what it's like to love, and be loved_. It's the best she's ever felt. She can feel the past waking to watch, little Natalia from the Red Room in awe of the vehemence shown of any emotion but hatred.

"Don't stop." She breathes, feeling her knees about to buckle. "Fuck it, don't ever stop." His grip on her waist tightens at her assent. He doesn't wait a moment longer, crashing his lips against hers, passionately, cravingly, releasing every held back touch since this whole ridiculous debacle began. He kisses her like he needs her, just as Natasha returns it in equal intensity. Her arms wind around his neck and her fingers reach into his hair, curling in the blonde. He presses her harder against the door, bruising her mouth with desire, and lifting her legs to link around his waist when she feels stable enough.

Natasha feels his tongue teasing the seams of her lips, and she parts them for him willingly. Steve could feel the crinkling of her smile as she does that, the heat rising in both their cheeks. They breathe the same air, think the same thoughts, taste the same saliva.

There's a jolt of electricity, almost an audible crackle accompanied by the shock running down their spines. They break away for air and she leans into him, locking the door swiftly behind her before he carries her away and onto the bed, caging her with his warmth.

"I never thought I'd be this close to you." She says suddenly.  
"Is it good?" He murmurs into her neck after a moment. Like her ragged breaths and desperate hands aren't enough evidence.  
"You- you _know_ it is."

After kissing her softly once again, he moves to her jaw and neck as she moans and he smiles against her skin, satisfied he can elicit this reaction from her. His hands slide under her shirt, fingers splayed across her stomach. There's a tiny hesitation as he finds the hem of her shirt, but she barely needs to nod assent before it's gone, over her head.

"You're so beautiful, Nat," He whispers into her ear, and she trembles. "Don't ever forget."

Soon his shirt joins hers and they are sold to each other. Theirs to do and die with, theirs to own, theirs to love. The night becomes long as seconds become minutes, minutes become hours and hours become days. They have all the time in the world. By the end they are a twisted tangle of limbs, shaking with exhausted pleasure, and fall asleep to the music of the other breathing.

_Love is friendship caught fire, after all._


	9. when the sun's risen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of morning breath and melted brains.

The first thing Steve feels as his mind stumbles blindly from slumber is warmth. Warmth on his back, stretching to the edges of consciousness, warmth blooming in his chest. He feels light, his head pleasurably empty, like he could float away at any given moment. His heart seems to skip beneath his ribcage, joyful, instead of the heavy plodding he's been victim to the last few months. 

He almost forgets the reason for a second, but then his eyes struggle open and it all comes back. He's greeted immediately by Natasha's sleeping face, centimetres from his. Immediately his mouth curves into a smile, the bliss only exacerbated as he realises exactly where he is, who he's with. 

As his other senses begin to regain consciousness, he becomes aware of the smell of her skin, the hushed rhythm to their breathing, and their position. Body marked from earlier antics and aching, their legs fold together and one of his hands rests in the space between her shoulder blades, drawing her closer to his chest, while hers lie on his collarbone and fold under her head respectively. His eyes are open properly now, and he adjusts himself slightly, careful not to wake her, to observe her for a minute, just admire. A tiny snuffle comes from her mouth as his hand adjusts along her spine and the corner of his mouth twitches. His eyes trace her eyebrows, the edge of her cheekbones, the hook of her nose, the bow of her lips, the stroke of her neck.

And then a voice, sleepy, but clear.  
"Keep staring Rogers, I may do a trick." Suddenly her eyes are open and he's overwhelmed by green. They smile.  
"Good morning."  
"Yes." She beams. "It is a very good morning." She too adjusts herself to look at him properly, eyes sparkling and glazed with something like happiness.

His hand moves up her back and cups her face, tucking a few carefree strands behind her ear. He moves to kiss her lightly, lingering for a moment.

"What that for?" Her nose wrinkles.  
"I don't know," He grins and pulls her on top of him. "I just can't get over that I'm allowed to kiss you whenever I want now." Natasha sees his mind backtrack slightly, considering. "I am, right? We're doing this?"  
"Yes." She nods with certitude. "We're doing this. On the topic though, there are other people involved in this equation. Do we- are we telling them? About us?"  
" 'Us','' Steve tastes the word, tests it out on his tongue. "I like the sound of that." He runs his hands up her sides, smirking as she hums appreciatively, satisfied he can elicit this reaction.

"Let them figure it out. We'll just do us and they can question us when and if they pick it up."  
"It'll be fun to watch their brains melt, at any rate." Not sadistic at all. "What will we say?"  
"I'll say that I love you."  
"Hopeless romantic, aren't you?"  
"You know it." He kisses her again, longer this time, and when they pull away their eyes are slightly foggy. "That was a thank you."  
She cocks her head, brows furrowed. "For what?"  
"For...everything. Thank you for loving me, for being okay with all of this and letting me love you, and most of all for dealing with my horrible morning breath right now." She giggles, and he carries on. "I just want you to know how lucky I feel to be yours."  
"Mmm. Don't regret it." There's still an underlying warning in her voice, which Steve knows will take a while to fade. It'll take a while for her to accept that she does deserve this. She deserves to be this happy.  
"Never."

This is a perfect moment. Utopic in time. Shining sun, warm skin and intimacy, joy and laughter and happy ever after. Part of Natasha still believes this is a dream. It still doesn't comprehend that someone like Steve could want someone like her, or that any of this actually exists. Perhaps she's in a coma, or some kind of lucid dream. But then Steve's hands are most definitely still running over her sides, and she really doesn't think her mind could have fabricated some of the stuff that happened last night. _Those_ memories instantly trigger a bout of laughter, and she buries her head in his shoulder.

"What's so funny? Nat?" He brings her head to meet his again, slightly confused.  
"Sorry, it's just-" She hiccups. "Here we are. Me. And you. In bed together. Naked." She begins giggling again as heat rises to his cheeks, though her fit manages to tweak up one of the corners. "It feels like a dream."  
"A good one, I hope?"  
"The best. If I ever wake up I shall be very angry."  
"Then I'd better do all I can to keep you here. What should be your first command?"  
"Kiss me again?" She asks, eyes bright and hopeful.

He does so, firmly capturing her lips with his, and a tiny groan comes from the back of her throat.

"What time is it?"  
He turns his head with a huff to see blue numbers flashing from the clock. "Eight thirty seven. Would it be rude to miss breakfast?"  
"Yes, and suspicious besides. Plus I'm starving. That stamina doesn't run on nothing you know." She winks. She promptly rolls off his chest, sighing despite herself. Holding the sheet to her chest, she leans forward and fumbles for a dressing gown, tugging at one hanging over the foot of the bed and finding a little modesty on the way to the shower. Steve watches her go, hands folded behind his head. Then he too laughs to himself. _A new era_ , he thinks.

————

They head down after showering and running to Steve's room for a change of clothes, Natasha not even attempting to hide the marks on her neck with shorts and one of his shirts (which nearly covers the shorts anyway), Steve in jeans and a t-shirt.

He's surprised when she laces her fingers through his, but doesn't pull away. Let them stare.

Sure enough, when they enter the common area, all eyes turn towards them in an absent minded glance, going back to their conversations in a second, before backtracking and snapping their heads to stare.  
Natasha scans the room in a second. They're the last ones down, unusually. In fact this is very abnormal for her; she's used to being the first, lift doors opening to an empty floor. 

Clint's eyebrows may as well be on the roof, whereas Wanda is biting her lip to stop from laughing, completely unsurprised.

Tony blinks, but no, that's definitely Steve's shirt, those are definitely _not_ bruises, and yes they're holding hands - probably the least bizarre part of this whole setup.  
"Are we supposed to just ignore the implications of this or-" He whispers to Rhodey, but then he's hugging her from behind and kissing her shoulder as she lathers peanut butter onto a slice of bread, so that effectively flushes any doubt down the drain. Rhodey pats his shoulder comfortingly as Tony smacks a nearby pillow onto his face. "I don't know anymore. It's all too confusing. My brain has melted." He muffles into the fabric.

It takes Natasha every effort not to laugh at their expressions, and just to make it worse when they go to sit, food in hand, she perches on Steve's lap, evoking a choking sound from someone. Tony peeps from behind the cushion, eyes still wide.  
"It's not too late for an autograph, Stark."  
"What?" He jumps.  
"Did your mother never tell you staring is rude?"  
He swallows. "Uh, sorry." The staring eyes now turn in his direction. Tony, apologising? To Natasha? Without a knife against his throat? This is shocking, but not _that_ shocking, surely? "Never mind." He swallows.  
"Good." She replies, before licking a dollop of honey from Steve's finger.

_  
All my nights taste like gold  
Yeah, when I'm with you it's like everything glows  
And all my days we can lay low  
Yeah, when we're waking up  
We're waking up slow  
\- Waking Up Slow, Gabrielle Aplin  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Feedback, comments and kudos are very welcome x


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